


In the Shadow of the Gallows

by Flutiebear



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, F/M, The Gallows, UST, templar!Carver, the Alienage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:45:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 119
Words: 114,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When his brother leaves him behind to go play adventurer in the Deep Roads, Carver Hawke makes a fateful choice that changes his life--and the lives of those he loves. Templar!Carver drabbles, originally published on Tumblr, and collected here. Starts right after Hawke leaves for the Deep Roads. Currently in Act 2. Eventual CarverxMerrill & GarrettxAnders</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Left Behind

After the caravan vanishes from sight, the first thing Carver does is visit Merrill.

Down in the alienage, children laugh and chase each other, sprinting around the tree and under his knees, having long ago lost their fear of the curious shemlen with the fur-lined vest who sometimes joins their games. As he passes, Nyssa waves to him from her stall. Maybe it’s just a trick of his foul mood, but Carver thinks she seems paler, more tired than usual.

He knocks on the door to Merrill’s house. At his touch, however, it creaks open.

She sits at her uneven table, the one Carver salvaged from the Hanged Man, looking lovely and small and perfect. Head in her hands, she stares unblinkingly at the cover of one of her books.

“Sorry, uh, to barge in. The door was open,” he says. He takes one hesitant step toward the table. “He didn’t take you either, I see.”

“He?” For a moment her eyes dart around the room, panicked, but then she lets out a low, steadying sigh. “Oh. Your brother. Yes. Why would he?” Her chin lifts. Her eyes are red, puffy. “He rarely takes me on his adventures as is. The only time he asks me along is when you’re there.”

Carver swallows hard. “Maybe he thinks you’re my chaperone.”

“I’m not. I’m—“ She trails off in an angry sigh. “Ah. Something dirty. Not now.”

“No--it wasn’t--I,” He frown and walks over to her, placing one hand awkwardly on her shoulder. He hopes his hand isn’t too hot and sweaty. “Merrill. What is it?”

She does not look at him, only shoves her head back into her hands, hair cascading around her fingers. “Templars.”

Carver’s breath hitches.

“They came to the alienage yesterday.” She draws a shuddering breath. “Normally they mostly leave us alone, but someone must have told them about Nyssa’s sister. They took her.” Merrill’s nails dig into her scalp. “And you know what I did?”

He moves to put an arm around her shoulder, but at the last minute, he loses his nerve and places his hand on the bookshelf behind her instead.

“You know what I did?” she repeats. She looks up at him, her eyes furious, bright, shining. “I hid. In here. Because I thought they might come for me next.”

Suddenly she bats away the book in front of her with the heel of her palm. It slides across the table and falls to the ground with a loud thud.

“You did—“ He wants to say _the right thing_ or _the smart thing_ or _what you thought was best_ , but he can’t quite wrap his tongue around the words. “Oh, Merrill.”

“What kind of First am I if I won’t even stand up to the Templars?” Against her scalp, her fingers clench into tight fists. Small droplets plop heavily on the table. “I’m supposed to protect elves, not run and hide when someone wants to hurt them.”

“It doesn’t do your people any good if they lock you up in the Gallows, too.”

“My people,” she scoffs. “ _My people._ What do my people care for me?”

“I don’t know,” he says softly. “But you care for them. And sometimes that’s enough.”

Holding his breath, he reaches out and, with trembling fingers, tucks one braid behind her ear. She lurches into his touch, like a tired kitten leaning against an outstretched palm.

“I won’t let them take you, Merrill,” he says softly. Then, before he can stop himself, he leans in and kisses the side of her head.

She jerks back, blushing. Her mouth opens and closes a few times before she manages words. “You can’t stop them.”

He regards her a long moment. The scent of her hair lingers on his lips.“I can try.”

Straightening, he turns and begins to walk toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Making a choice,” he says, and leaves.


	2. The Choice is Made

The first time he came to the alienage afterward, she wouldn’t open the door.

“Go away, Carver,” she shouted through the rotted planks. “I don’t want to speak to you.”

“Merrill—“ He placed one gauntlet on the door, and winced at the shriek it made, the scrape of metal on metal. “Please.”

“No.”

Carver flushed. He noticed Nyssa at her stall, pretending not to stare at the flaming sword on his breastplate, the crimson skirt around his legs, and his cheeks burned even hotter. “Fine,” he yelled back. “I just thought you, of all people, might understand.”

“Well, I don’t,” came the bitter reply. He could hear her choke back a sob and shove away from the door. Then, silence.

Carver leaned his forehead against the jamb and held it there a moment. Slowly, his hand fell from the door. He sighed and turned to leave.

“Morning, Carver,” Nyssa called, not looking at him. “Or should I call you Ser now?”

He jabbed his palms against his eyes and held them there for a brief moment. “Morning Nyssa. Just Carver, if you please.”

Eventually, he looked over to her and found Nyssa smiling wanly, hesitantly. Silently, she produced a vhenadahl fruit from under her stall and held it out to him. He reached for his coin purse, only to remember too late that his armor didn’t have any pockets.

She shook her head. “On me,” she said.

Carver scowled. “I can’t take advantage.”

“Consider it your first bribe.” She smirked.

He sighed heavily and took the fruit. “Thanks, Nyssa. I’ll pay you next time.”

“Of course you will,” she said softly.

He nodded and left without another word, the metal in his armor squealing the entire way up the long dusty staircase back up to Lowtown. When he got to the top of the stairs, he cursed loudly, and kicked the adobe wall with one shining steel sabaton. The impact reverberated up his toes, rattling his legs, his spine, even into his ribcage and heart.


	3. Speak of the Spirit

“Carver! Oh, Car-ver!”

Even this far outside her house, he can hear her shout his name from within. But something’s wrong. It sounds tight, pained--not so much a call-and-answer as energy ready to be released, a snake coiling to strike. It makes him want to hurl the door off its hinges and—

But no, he hasn’t seen her in six months, not since he first enlisted in the Order, and he’s not about to make his entrance by confirming all her worst fears and destroying her house. She’ll open her door to him when she’s ready. Not before. Never before. Besides, something about the way the vowels crest and stretch out, how she swallows the end of his name, it makes his cheeks prickle and the hairs on his forearms stand on end.

Fine, he’ll give it thirty seconds. Then he’ll go in.

No, she could be dead by then.

Fifteen seconds, then.

But he’s pressing his ear to the door, just in case.

He hears shuffling inside. Muffled voices. His name again, but not quite the same. Something slams. Floorboards creak.

He waits for the door to open. Fifteen seconds go by. Then thirty. A minute. Then another.

His brow furrows. She said his name, didn’t she? She knows he’s out here. Why doesn’t she open the—

Abruptly the door slams open so hard that Carver tumbles backward, and when it connects with the outer wall, bits of dry adobe tumble off the roof.

The startled elf that greets him--it’s not Merrill. Too tall. Too male. Dark hair, long nose, ears that stick out like bird wings. Carver blinks. He knows that face all too well. “Tomwise?”

“Ah--and _look_ ,” Tomwise snarls, his face wolfish, fierce. “Speak of the spirit. Here he is.”

Tomwise shoves past Carver, their shoulders colliding heavily.

Merrill appears in the doorway. Carver tries not to notice that she’s not wearing her yellow scarf, or her belt. Or her leather greaves.

“Tom--Tom, wait. Just wait a moment—“ She clings to the doorjamb, but does not stretch out her hand after him, just digs her nails into the wood and refuses to look at Carver. Her tattoos stand out in stark relief against her blotchy, pink cheeks. One of her braids juts out strangely on end.

Tomwise whirls on his heels. He points his finger at her, and Carver want to snap it off at the first knuckle. “Don’t, Merrill. _Halam sahlin. Din emma na._ ”

He stomps off past the vhenadahl tree, up the stairs, out of sight.

She sighs, watching him go. Only after a long moment does she finally turn to him.

“What are you doing here, Carver?” she asks, eyes bright, her mouth a tight line. “Come to _arrest_ me?”

“I--no—“ He recoils, shoves his hands in his pockets. This morning, he’d thought it would be best if he came to the alienage in plainclothes, but now he finds himself longing for the security of his armor. “I--came to apologize, actually.”

Her face softens, but just a bit. “Now’s not a good time.”

She turns around and closes the door.

“Wait, Merrill. Please.” Silence. He can’t even hear the floorboards creak within. He puts a fist on the door, leans his forehead against his knuckles. “When should I come back?”

“Never,” says the muffled voice on the other side, choking back a sob.


	4. Running Away

True to his word, Carver does not come to the alienage again, in plain clothes or without. Instead, he waits for Merrill to come to him, although without any real sense of urgency or hope—he does live in the Gallows, after all. He’ll be waiting a very long time.

And that’s okay, he tells himself, because Basic takes up most of his days, and that means morning PT and midnight watches and endless rounds of training drills. Luckily, he’s a natural at his lessons, a quirk of his magical heritage, perhaps—although maybe it’s not so lucky for him after all, as it doesn’t win him many friends among the new recruits. But Hawkes never did know when _not_ to excel, when _not_ to soar as high as they possibly could, and Carver is as guilty as his father of showing off just for the sheer thrill of it.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that back in Lothering, Ser Bryant had taught Carver some elementary moves— how to sense magical blood, how to neutralize cantrips, that sort of thing—just before Carver had departed for Ostagar. Heh. _Departed._ Ran, more like it. He can admit that now. Ran to Ostagar, ran to Lothering, ran to Kirkwall. Always running. But not anymore. Because the Order teaches a man to draw a line on the ground and make his stand – and to his surprise, Carver finds doing so isn’t as hard as he’d always assumed it would be.

Oddly enough, it’s the Chant of the Light Carver struggles with the most. Although Bethany believed, Mother and Father never had much use for religion, and Carver hadn’t much set foot inside a Chantry in three years—not since Father died, in fact. He still remembers the dirty parts, of course (when he was younger, he especially liked that bit about “making me to rest in the warmest places”). But Ser Karras and Ser Thrask now expect him to be able to recite hundreds of lines at a time, like the other recruits, and whenever he stumbles, they assign him extra study hours with the resident clerics. He’s taken to just assuming that he’ll be spending from Vespers to Compline in the chapel.

It’s a place he both loves and hates: He loves it because it reminds him of Bethany. He hates it for the same reason.

His mother visits him every week—and, surprisingly enough, so too does Gamlen, who now looks upon his nephew with something vaguely resembling pride. (Or maybe it’s just a wicked hangover; Mother and Gamlen do always seem to visit in the mid-morning, after all.) His brother, however, hasn’t come to see him once, even though Carver knows he’s been to the Gallows—several times, actually. Ruvena, who it seems has a bit of a crush, delights in informing Carver of the exact whereabouts of the newest scion of the Amell family at all times (nevermind the one she has kitchen duty with from Prime to Terce).

Most days, he’s too busy to think of _her_ as anything other than an abstract ache. But she’s never far from his thoughts, because more than his brother or his mother or Lothering, he misses her. He misses her laughter and her curiosity, and the way her voice would catch when she talked about Ferelden, and how she always had a kind word to say, even—especially—when his brother didn’t.

Once, while they were at the Wounded Coast, she pointed out a weed whose flower looked like a mole on the back of his neck, she said, one that he hadn’t even known was there. He’d almost kissed her then. Now he wishes that he had, just so he’d have something, anything—a line on the ground to remember, and not just more memories of running away.


	5. Sulahnni

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first of a five part story arc.

Nearly nine months pass. The seasons change, though few visible signs mark their passing aside from the shifting constellations and the sun, which now wheels so close to the horizon the Gallows towers block it out by mid-day.

Carver misses the seasons: Ferelden’s sweltering summers, its merciless blizzards, the way crocuses would poke their tips through the last bit of slushy snow. But Kirkwall, nestled in its protective bay, has no use for climate: The days all average out to one dull, unending moment of sunshine. He finds himself longing for his brother’s excursions to the Sundermount: Nevermind the cursed graveyards; there, at least, were _clouds._

One day, Carver seeks out Nyssa’s sister, Sulahnni, in the apprentice quarters. He didn’t do it before because--well--many reasons. But he’s doing it now.

When she sees him, she hurls herself tight against his breastplate. They haven’t made her Tranquil for her apostasy, thank the Maker, and she’s already grown so much in the few months since she arrived. Her hair, a firey red so unlike Nyssa’s, has grown out past her shoulders, and she’s added three inches since he last saw her. She’s nearly to Bethany’s height now.

She insists they play jacks together. When he swipes at the jacks with his heavy gauntlet, he scatters them across the floor by accident. She giggles.

“Take your glove off, Carver,” she says, swatting at his fist.

“Hey!” He draws back his gauntlet dramatically, like a mabari with a hurt paw. “I’m not supposed to.”

“Do it anyway!” She juts out her lower lip dramatically.

He smirks and unlatches his gauntlet. She’s too old to pout to get her way, but he never could find it in him to deny Sulahnni anything.

“If they give me lashes, Su, I’ll make you take them,” he says, both of them grinning like fools.

They finish their game, and she makes him promise to visit her again tomorrow. She asks after Nyssa, and Merrill, and the vhenadahl fruit stand, but he can’t tell her anything besides how long Merrill’s braids are, and that she apparently has a new-- _special friend._

That afternoon, before Vespers, Ser Alrik, his Templar arts lecturer, summons him to his office. In a cold, reedy voice, he reprimands Carver for fraternizing with the mages, for taking far too keen an interest in one young apprentice.

“They’re not like us,” Alrik says, and when he smiles, Carver swears his tongue darts out between his teeth.

On his way to the chapel after leaving Alrik’s office, Carver hears a commotion in the courtyard. Many of the mages, as well as a few off-duty recruits, have crowded around the center dias, blocking his view.

Suddenly Carver hears a wet, sickening crack, and then a sob.

“Cut her down,” someone shouts.

As they bring Sulahnni by him on their way to Sol’s healing station, her pulpy back glistening in the slanted evening sun, Carver blinks back hot tears. She does not look at him. She does not look at anything; her eyes are glassy, unfocused, and bright green.

Carver clenches his fist so hard the metal of his gauntlet cuts into his flesh and draws blood.

He knows that he would have leapt in front of the lash to protect her. If only Alrik had dismissed him five minutes earlier, he would have charged that dias, hurled himself between the whip and the girl, and drawn his line on the ground, no matter what the cost.

But apparently, Ser Alrik knows he would have too.


	6. At the Memorial Wall

Behind the chapel is a little cemetery--not a graveyard, as such; space in the Gallows is too limited for that. Rather, it’s a Memorial Wall, where the ashes of mages and Templars alike have been scattered for decades, their names carved in bold letters onto a broad expanse of marble.

Carver was horrified when he first heard of the Wall. Back in Ferelden, Memorial Walls had been less literal; the people there had the sense to bury their corpses, not throw them on a cooking fire. But in Kirkwall, cremation is more the norm, especially for nobles, viscounts--those deserving high honors.

It doesn’t escape Carver’s notice that the people here still believe mages deserve high honors, even if only when they’re dead.

It seems like it should be such a stark place, but the Wall is never bare: Usually at least three or four wreaths lean against the marble at any one time, or maybe some wooden toys, or a cluster of candles enchanted with Everlasting Flame. On the ground, mourners long ago planted carnations and daisies, making it one of the only places in the Gallows one can find fresh flowers anymore. It’s rather peaceful, in fact. Pleasant. He can’t imagine anyone here coming here to grope their older brother’s girlfriend, or drink the top-shelf liquor they swiped from Father’s stash.

Carver comes here sometimes, when he’s lonely, and looks up his namesake and Tobrius, who passed away a few weeks before he enlisted. He unlatches his gauntlet and runs his bare fingertips along the graven names, the angular stone cool against his touch. Sometimes he even recites a line or two from the Chant for them—not because he believes in it, but because that’s what you do in these places, and Carver likes knowing what to do.

Today he is here not because he is homesick but because he has received a letter. And not just any letter. A letter from _her._

 _Carver—_

 _Nyssa is very ill. Could Sulahnni visit?_

 _— Merrill_

He has already read and re-read it a hundred times, seeking some secret cipher that will reveal she misses him, she worries about him, she’s sorry for their argument. But it is not there.

He wants to crumple up the letter. Merrill should know better, anyway. Mages can’t leave the Gallows. Maybe back in his father’s day--maybe if Maurevar and Tobrius were still alive--but not now.

Why is she even asking him? She should be taking this up with Orsino, or Meredith, or Cullen. Or his _brother._ Not him. What could he even _do_? He’s just a recruit. And if they catch him by Su again…

He sinks down against the marble and holds his head in his hands, and stares balefully at the cluster of daisies by his feet.

“Recruit,” says a brisk, deep voice. Carver leaps to his feet--as best he can in full plate, at least--and stands at attention.

It’s Thrask, the red-headed Templar he and his brother helped out so many years ago. Now, of course, Thrask is Knight-Sergeant Thrask, Carver’s weapons trainer. Since Carver came to the Circle, Thrask hasn’t spoken to him once outside the context of drills, although he remarks often on Carver’s competence with a sword, much to the consternation of the other recruits.

Carver often wishes he could tell Thrask that his father trained him. He thinks Thrask, of all people, would get the joke.  
“At ease,” he says, waving his gauntlet. “No need for that here.”

Carver nods. He notices that Thrask carries a small flower in his gauntleted hand, its delicate stem pinched gently by metal joints. _Olivia,_ Carver thinks. He’s seen her name here too--an apostate, yes, but given the same honors as all the rest.

“A strange place to read a letter, son,” Thrask says. His eyes flick to the name on the Memorial Wall behind Carver, then back to the letter in his hands. Suddenly, Carver wants to hide the paper behind his back.

“There’s not much privacy in the barracks, Ser.”

“Ah.” Thrask smiles knowingly. “So it’s _that_ kind of letter.”

 _“N-No!”_ Carver looks down at his feet, feeling the tips of his ears burn. “No, Ser, she’s only a friend.”

“Wise.” The smile has vanished from Thrask’s voice, and he sounds tired and very, very old.

Carver’s eyes drift over to the daisies. He’s suddenly reminded of the old dragon-lady, the one that lived in the amulet they took to Sundermount. What was that she said? Something about fate or chance, and knowing when to jump to your death. Carver can’t remember the details.

But maybe she was right, Carver thinks. Maybe there’s no such thing as chance--or fate. Maybe you just need to take what the Maker offers, when He offers.

“Ser,” Carver says. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Thrask nods. “What’s on your mind, son?”


	7. Battles to Be Fought

Thrask listens without saying much, just a nod and a “hmm” at appropriate intervals. In that respect, he’s more like Father than Garrett, although the Templar frowns more than either ever did.

When Carver is done, Thrask stares at the carnation in his hand for many moments before speaking.

“Carver, listen to me. You must forget this. Mages cannot leave the Gallows. And Sulahnni is—“ Thrask sighs, and begins to twirl the stem between his gauntleted fingers, crushing it a little. “Let’s say that higher powers have taken an interest in her education.”

“Bugger higher powers. Merrill wouldn’t have written if it wasn’t serious.” Carver hates that he can say it so easily, as if the fact he hasn’t seen her in nine months doesn’t even matter.

“I believe you.” Thrask looks up at the cloudless sky, his eyes unfocused and sad. “But a Templar must learn to pick his battles.”

“Sulahnni’s not a battle to be fought. And neither is Nyssa,” he grunts. With one gauntleted fist he tugs at the front of his hair, blinking back the heat in his eyes, until he feels sharp prickles of pain along his scalp. “And neither was your daughter,” he adds with a sidelong glance.

He expects Thrask to get angry: to swear, to scowl, to dress him down, to storm off. But the man’s face remains placid—indeed so slack that he has begun to resemble Sol’s assistant.

“They are all battles, Carver,” he says wearily. “All mages, each one of them a battlefield. You would do well to remember that.”

“But she could die, ser. She may already be—“ Carver can’t bring himself to say it.

For many moments, Thrask does not look at him, simply stares at the sky, as if waiting for the right cloud, or any cloud, to roll by. “You were there, weren’t you,” he says eventually in a soft, old voice. “When my Olivia—“

Thrask closes his eyes instead of finishing the sentence and resumes twirling the carnation stem.

“No, Ser,” Carver says; not for the first time, he wishes that he could lie convincingly. “That was my brother.”

Thrask looks at him now, finally, his blue eyes bright, even in the Wall’s shadow.

“But he told me about her,” Carver said, his voice catching. “It—made an impression on him.”

“Ah.” The stem stops twirling. Thrask releases a long, low breath. Heavily, with none of the grace of a practiced soldier, he brings himself to his feet. “I’ll regret this, but—I’ll take care of it.”

Carver allows himself the briefest of smiles. But then he stands up too. “How, ser?”

Thrask chuckles dryly and starts to turn away.

“I said, I’ll take care of it, recruit.”

“With respect,” Carver says, and Thrask turns back to face him, “That’s not good enough, ser.”

Thrask smiles. “Anyone ever tell you that you take after your brother?”

Carver bites back his usual responses to that question. He likes Thrask, and while he may not be able to lie convincingly, he’s starting to learn that that doesn’t mean he always needs to tell the truth, either.

Thrask then tells Carver about an old abandoned service tunnel that runs below the Gallows, winding its way under the lake. “Used to be the worst kept secret in the Gallows,” he says with a fond smile.

Thrask will take Sulahnni down himself, he says, and there she’ll be escorted through the tunnel by a former Templar Thrask sometimes relies on for this kind of work—

“Samson?”

Thrask blinks. “How do you know of him?”

“Well, sometimes my brother _did_ take me along.” Carver smirks.

Thrask cannot hide his surprise—or that he is, for some reason, impressed—and Carver relishes in both equally. “Once she’s in Darktown, however,” Thrask continues, “she’s on her own. I can’t guarantee anything past that.”

“Leave that to me. I have a—“ Carver searches for the appropriate word to call Anders, but can’t find anything vile enough, “a _contact_ in Darktown who might be willing to help.”

Thrask nods. “Let your contact know, then. We move tomorrow. If we’re lucky, we may be able to get her a full night with her sister. And Carver—“ He frowns, his jaw suddenly tight. “You mustn’t ask after her, or try to contact her in any way. I will let you know if the plan succeeds.”

Carver also nods, but Thrask is not satisfied. “Listen to me. Go to chapel. Study in the library. Keep yourself visible _here._ As the Grand Cleric says, _when evil stirs, be not in its view._ ”

“Yes, ser.” Thrask again turns to leave, but Carver suddenly remembers something. “Wait—“

He digs behind his sash, where he’s taken to carrying a small change pouch, if only for old time’s sake. When he withdraws the pouch, Thrask waves his gauntlet dismissively and says “No messages either, son,” but Carver merely shakes his head. He counts out a few coins.

“Give this to Sulahnni,” he says, handing the pittance to Thrask. “Tell her it’s for Nyssa. A late payment, with interest. Nyssa will understand.”

Thrask quirks his eyebrow, but pockets the change without comment. “Tomorrow, then. May the Maker watch over us all.”

He drops the carnation at Carver’s feet, next to Maurevar Carver’s name plate.


	8. Desertion

It has been three days and Carver has heard nothing—not a letter nor a relayed message, not even so much as an errant blink from Thrask during their weapons training. He tries to concentrate on his drills, on his Chant studies, on anything at all, but it’s like living in one of Mother’s pressure cookers: He feels like an overcooked bean, ready to pop.

Then one afternoon, on his way to None, he sees her across the courtyard. She’s just standing there. Staring vacantly.

She is not playing jacks any more.

***

“Carver? Is that you?”

“Open the door, Merrill.”

“Carver, I—“

“Open it, or I’ll stand out here all night until you do.”

“Don’t tempt me, _Templar,_ ” she hisses. But she opens the door anyway.

She stands there, loose tunic and hair unbraided and no leggings or scarf or bracers; she is simply _Merrill,_ small and stripped down and beautiful.

At the sight of her, he collapses. He grabs her by the hand and tugs her toward him, pulling her tight to his chest and wrapping his too-long arms around her tiny body. Against him she is stiff, startled, but he doesn’t care; he just holds her, holds her as tightly as he can, so she—or maybe he—won’t drift away into the night.

“Oh, Maker,” he whispers, eyes closed, her hair catching on his lips.

She starts to wriggle then, and, reluctantly, he releases her, dropping his arms to his side, where they make fists against his breeches. She jerks back from him, although one of her hands lingers on his naked bicep.

“Carver,” she says in a strangled voice. With her other hand she reaches up, touches his jaw gently, and drags his gaze away from his feet. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I can’t, Merrill. I just can’t. It’s all gone wrong.” He wants to cry. He needs to cry. But now, strangely, the tears won’t come.

“Does Leandra know you’re out of the Gallows?” she asks, but Carver knows what she’s really asking is, _does your brother know?_ And he wants nothing more than to see his mother right now; to see that face that looks so much like Bethany’s and have her tell him _everything will be alright, you’ll see._ But seeing her means also having to see _him,_ and he just can’t handle the judgment, the disappointment. Not now, or maybe ever. So he shakes his head dumbly and leans into her touch.

“Come in,” she says, taking his hand and leading him inside. A few months ago, he would have rejoiced at this connection, at the feel of her soft hand in his. Now he barely registers it. He is just a hunk of walking flesh, dead inside, one of the legendary Orzammar golems. It’s easier this way.

She takes his rucksack of possessions, which he has been dragging behind him, and leans it against the door. Then, like a mabari on a leash she leads him to the table and forces him to sit, warm hands on his shoulders. “Stay here. I’ll make some tea.”

With a puff of magic she doesn’t even attempt to conceal, she relights her small cooking fire, then starts putters around, cups banging, canisters thumping. Occasionally she turns to him, and on her wide forehead he can see nothing, nothing but a sun-shaped scar that isn’t there.

 _She’s so small. But she’s strong, too. She could probably take down maybe seven or eight of them before they got to her._

 _Before_ we _got to her._

“You should leave here, Merrill,” he says suddenly. “You should go back to Sundermount. This is no place for you.”

She turns to him, a sour frown on her face. “I’ll be the judge of that, thanks.”

“Please, Merrill. You want me to beg? I will.” He gets on his knees. “Please.” He feels the tears prickling his eyes now. “Please just go back to your clan, and forget this rotted place even exists.”

“Elgar’nan, get up,” she says crossly. But then she looks at him, really looks, and her face softens. “Carver—stop it. You’re scaring me.”

As he reclaims his seat, he notices out of the corner of his eye something shiny and metallic; when he looks over to her bedroom, he notices a strange mirror set in a frame of coiling gold snakes. He can’t even see his own reflection—which is good, because right now, there’s nobody he wants to see less than himself.

“Weird mirror,” he says.

“Nevermind that,” she says, returning to the table with tea. He wraps his hands around the steaming mug so he doesn’t reach for her again. “Now you tell me what’s going on right now, Carver Hawke.”

“I left.”

When he says nothing more, her brow furrows. “You left?” she prompts.

He nods. “Deserted, I guess. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Why?”

 _How could I have ever imagined us—her—what was I thinking? I would have just broken her too. Everything I love breaks in the end._

“Sulahnni,” is all he can say before his voice fails on him.

She beams at him. “Is that all? Oh, Carver. I didn’t want her to have to go back either.”

It’s too much, so he stares into his tea mug instead.

“Oh but I knew I did the right thing in asking you.” She pats his forearm gently. When he looks up again, she is smiling crookedly at him, and if possible, he hates himself even more. “Thank you for that. Nyssa’s feeling much better. Anders worked up a special potion. I was surprised to see him, actually, but he said they’d let Su out just this once, and I do think it helped, oh I do, because Su cheered Nyssa up quite a bit, and Marethari always said that family was the best medicine—“

 _There is but one Truth to the Maker._

“They found her.”

Merrill’s hand clenches against Carver’s skin. “What?”

“They found her.” He sucks in a shuddering breath. “She wasn’t supposed to be out. On her way back in—they caught her. They made her Tranquil.”

“But Anders said—“

“I told him to say that,” he lies.

“You. _You_ —“ she sputters.

Merrill yanks back her hand as if it has been burned, and punches him in the face.


	9. Special Lessons

“Hawke,” she says crisply, her back turned to him, and it takes him a moment to realize she’s addressing him. “Thank you for answering my summons so quickly.”

“Yes, Knight-Commander,” Carver says. Unlike Thrask or Karras, she does not suggest he sit down, or stand at ease, or in any way relax--even though here, behind the closed door of her office, it’s just the two of them. Maybe Hugh was right. Maybe she _does_ feed on fear. Well, bugger that. He won’t give her the pleasure.

“Let me guess, I’m here because my brother asked you to _take an interest in me,_ ” he says in what he hopes is a strong and defiant, and not petulant, tone, but he can’t take his eyes off the enormous, gleaming broadsword her back.

She turns toward him. She is smiling. Warmly.

“No, no. This has nothing to do with your relatives,” she says, “and everything to do with your _education,_ as it were.” She folds her arms across her breastplate and holds one hand up to rub her jaw; a move Carver thinks looks odd when there’s no beard for the fingers to toy with. “You are promising, recruit, quite promising indeed. You have exhibited aptitude, discipline, restraint. Few recruits master Basic training so easily.”

“Uh--“ Carver blushes a little. Nobody has ever told him he showed _restraint_ before. “I was a soldier, ser. I fought at Ostagar.”

She nods. “It’s no wonder that you survived. Your sword and shield skills are exemplary, even though as I understand it, you prefer to fight two-handed.” She smiles again, and Carver even begins to allow himself the possibility that she’s _serious._ “It’s a rare man indeed that can switch from a longsword to Templar-issue sword and shield and back again as the situation demands.”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he just says, “Thank you.”

Ever so slightly, she inclines her head in acknowledgement. Then her brow furrows.

“But I am concerned about your—“ Even Carver can tell she’s pretending to fumble for the word--she’s clearly a terrible liar, a fact which only makes him flush harder, “— _associations._ ”

The hair on the back of his neck bristles. There are a thousand ways this discussion could continue, and Carver doesn’t like any of them.

“Did you hear what happened with the apprentice Sulahnni,” she says, and it is not a question. Nor does she wait for him to answer. “It was a pity, really. Some apostates cannot bear the transition to a normal life.”

Something in the way she says it--how her voice lowers, how it softens on the consonants--convinces Carver that she genuinely believes it. _Bugger that too,_ he thinks. Three weeks have done little to mitigate the sting of his failure, not to mention what happened with Merrill--

“Indeed,” he says, more sharply than he intends. “So. What does this have to do with me?”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Only that certain sources had reported witnessing the two of you fraternizing several weeks before her escape attempt.”

“Frater—“ He cannot hold back his frustrated sigh. “Knight-Commander, we were playing _jacks_ together. I was only trying to—“

Her gaze steels, and the smile lingering in the corners of her mouth vanishes, leaving no trace it was ever there.

“I know what you were doing, recruit,” she says coldly. “But no mage is entirely innocent, and no Templar entirely blameless. If a mage should fall, it is because a Templar failed in his duty to catch her when she stumbled. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ser,” he says crisply.

“I understand better than you think, Carver Hawke,” she says, scowling, “the darkness that lurks in young mages’ hearts. The more innocent the face, the more destruction a mage can wreak on her people. Remember this, recruit, for it might prevent your downfall.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good.” Her face relaxes, as if she has finished eating an unpleasant vegetable, leaving only pudding on her plate.

“Now,” she says, clasping her hands together. “Given the emphasis Basic must place on sword and shield maneuvers, other non-regulation combat skills can often fall by the wayside. But a good soldier is a prepared soldier.” She walks over to her desk, the sword on her back clanking a little against her armor. “That’s why you will be training with me on two-handed fighting techniques three times a week after None.”

Meredith hands him a dossier; when he flips it open, it contains a ticket for a new greatsword, an updated training schedule, and forms for his tutors to sign. “I--I don’t understand, ser,” he says, looking back up at her.

“Hawke,” she says, eyes gleaming. “I said you are promising. But promise means little unless you hone it. Even the finest weapon is merely a lump of rock until it is forged. Now, Hawke,” she smiles, flashing teeth, “it’s time for you to hop in the fire as well.”


	10. The Summer Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carver, FINALLY, gets laid.

It starts when Magritta, the shy, bookish girl he’d been flirting with in his History of the Order lessons, crawls into his bed one night. She doesn’t ask for much more than a few kisses and a warm body to wrap around hers, but when he rolls on top of her, she opens her legs eagerly in welcome. For almost an hour, the two of them tumble about, making his top bunk shimmy against the wall, and she leaves his barrack with her hair braids in tangles and a dazed smile on her lips.

The next day, he chats with her after lessons, walks her to her shift in the mess hall. Outside the kitchen, she distractedly plants a kiss on his cheek and thanks him for the lovely time. He’s not disappointed, per se, but he does offer her a repeat performance should she ever she desire, and she smiles beatifically, as if he were a haberdasher offering her a free hat.

Two days later, Ruvena comes to him. She shoves him on Paxley’s bunk, lifts up his skirt, sucks him until he’s hard and groaning. When she mounts him, it takes both of them only a few minutes to grind out a quick release. She doesn’t even say thank you. But she comes to him again the next day, and the day after that--every day for two weeks. Eventually his body learns to expect her, so that by the time she climbs on top of him, warm and smelling of sword oil, he’s already hard enough to ache.

Then one day Ruvena stops coming to his bed, still offering him no explanation. No matter, however: She is quickly replaced by Adele, and Rose, then Cedricka. He asks Sigourney there all on his own.

He knows not to expect too much; a soldier keeps his fucks and his feelings separate, and intimacy is a luxury he’s not particularly interested in. Still, given twenty-odd years of coy flirtations and near-constant rejection, he can’t help but be a little unnerved by his sudden bounty.

Moira, a sensible woman with a decidedly insensible haircut, tries to explain it to him over dinner one night.

“You see us as women,” she says.

“But,” he frowns, bemused, “you _are_ women.”

“Not to this lot, we’re not,” she says, waving her fork around her. “To them, we’re just another sword.”

“Can’t you be that too?”

She smirks at him appreciatively. “Apparently not.”

“Then they’re all idiots,” he says, stabbing at his mince pie idly. “They should spend some time in the army.”

“Maker, not Ostagar _again_ ,” she interjects, rolling her eyes.

He scowls playfully at her. “All I’m saying is that there, everyone knew that drinking and fucking was the best way to pass the time.” He leaves the obvious _until the darkspawn horde came and brained your girlfriend_ unsaid.

“What’re we, mages?” she giggles. Carver can’t help himself from chuckling either. “The boys do plenty of both, farmhand,” she says, waggling her eyebrows at him luridly. “Just most of ‘em go to the Blooming Rose instead. Most of us grew up together. It’s like kissing your sister, I guess.”He smiles at her. Her hair really is quite ridiculous. It’s as if she cut it herself with a bucket over her head. “If you’re left so,” he grins wolfishly, ” _unsatisfied_ , then why don’t you go to the Blooming Rose, too?”

She winks at him. “Who says we don’t?”

He winks back. “Who says you need to?”

Thus ends the brief, happy reign of Carver the tomcat, and begins the age of Carver the besotted beau--or as besotted as Carver allows himself, at least. While nobody could ever describe her as “cute”, he likes how charming Moira is, how funny--always the first one in a room to get a joke, and never the last one to laugh at herself. She has lots of friends, connections; access to all the best banned goods; and she never lets herself succumb too deeply to the weight of her obligations or the dreariness of enlisted life. Plus she fucks like a summer storm--all wetness and frenzied heat—it makes Carver blush to think of it. She reminds him a little of Isabela, actually, if Isabela had grown up in a Chantry instead of the open sea.

Each night, he knows that he has to leave her bunk or she has to leave his, and only a tangle of wet, rapidly cooling sheets will remain. But for the brief moments when he buries himself in Moira’s arms, losing himself in her skin and scent--she smells like metal, and apples, and sword oil--he allows himself to forget everything, at least for a little while.


	11. Bringing In The Catch

The sun has just peeked over the tallest Gallows tower when the downtown barge arrives. Carver, preoccupied with pinching Moira’s bottom as surreptitiously as he can, does not notice it dock at first, nor the crowd and commotion that accompanies it. But Moira does, and she swats at him to stop his foolery so she can get a closer look.

She drags him by the hand down the steps, and he lets himself be dragged, relishing the weight of her calloused, strong hand in his. Then suddenly, she pushes him back behind a pillar.

“Apples,” he mumbles into her hair. “If this is what you want, we could have just stayed in the barracks—“

“Hush it, Carver,” she whispers, but not before she presses her backside against him wickedly.

A huddle of shackled mages, maybe six or seven in total, lurches up the steps, surrounded by a small Templar platoon, plate clattering, swords drawn. With lean, hungry faces and protruding eyes, the mages wear the tattered remains of Circle robes, though they are a different color and design than the standard Gallows issue.

“Apostates,” Moira murmurs in awe. Carver sucks in a sharp breath.

One of them, a woman, looks their way. She has a vicious tattoo that curves in a scrolling half-moon across her cheek and jaw. Her eyes burn. Imperiously her gaze sweeps over him, and Carver swears she almost seems to recognize him, even though he’s sure he’s never seen her before in his life.

The platoon tromps up the stairs and out of sight.

Moira turns to him, beaming. “Looks like the hunters found the halla today.”

Carver can’t bring himself to smile quite as widely as she. “So many Templars for so few mages. It’s a wonder they didn’t sink the barge.”

“Must have been real nasty ones,” she says with pride. She looks briefly to up the stairs, from which the faint clanking of armor can still be heard. “Did you see the look of that one woman? She had the look of pure evil, she did.”

“She’s just angry she got caught,” Carver says, trying not to think of the face Garrett would make if he were captured. _Don’t be stupid, Carver. Garrett would never be taken alive._ “A few weeks with Idunna will set her straight.”

He kisses the tip of her nose and takes her hand. But now he’s the one pulling her down the steps; her gaze lingers on the Gallows behind them. “Those colors,” she whispers. “I wonder if those are the Starkhaven maleficars.”

Carver stops. “Starkhaven?”

She nods thoughtfully. “Couple years’ back, one of them started a cult, broke all the phylacteries, burnt the whole place to the ground. A mess of them escaped. Would’ve been just before you got to the Marches, I guess, or maybe just after.”

 _Ah,_ Carver thinks, _during the Blight year_. He still thinks of his time with Athenril in Fereldan terms, and it’s still hard for him to accept that the world kept moving during the Blight without his homeland--that _he_ kept moving--that either of them even had the audacity. “I think I remember hearing about this somewhere.”

“Yeah, it was big news back then,” she murmurs. “We caught most of them, but there were always a few demon-snugglers we couldn’t catch. Looks like we found ‘em now, though. Finally.”

Carver walks back up the stairs, puts an arm around Moira’s shoulders, and tries to gently herd her down the steps.

“You ask me,” she mutters, leaning into his touch, “the whole lot of them should be run through. Being made Tranquil’s too good for them.”

“Apples--“ He squeezes her shoulders and swallows hard. “They can’t all be blood mages.”

“Sure,” she smiles at him, “The ones that aren’t are already dead.”

She snickers, but Carver doesn’t get the joke.


	12. Meeting the Family

“I look ridiculous,” Moira says, tugging at her dress. The ribbon which holds back her bangs is already a little lopsided.

“You look beautiful,” Carver says. “Ripe enough to eat.”

“Oh, hush it, you.” She adjusts her bodice for the fourteenth time in two minutes. “Your ma’s going to think I’m one of the servants playing dress-up.”

“You’re a little too tall for that.” Carver snickers at her confused look. He takes her hands in his. “She’ll love you, Apples, you’ll see.”

Moira pouts--actually _pouts._ Carver never thought he’d see the day. “You can’t know that for certain,” she says.

He smiles and kisses the back of her knuckles. “I can, too. Mother loves meeting new people. And she has a soft spot for Templars.”

She sighs, unconvinced, and looks him up and down. “At least one of us fills out finery well,” she mutters.

He grins and leads her up the steps to the estate, where a short, older dwarf greets them at the door.

“Ah, Master Carver,” he simpers, and Carver’s jaw goes tight. “What a pleasure to see you again. Mistress Amell awaits you in the dining room.”

Carver never really knows how to address Feddic—Bodahn--the dwarf. He’s appalled that Garrett even keeps servants--not that he’s surprised, of course, because Garrett’s head was always bigger than his sense; and nevermind that the world didn’t revolve around him, because his brother would just change it until it did. But that Mother goes along with it… well, it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He’s starting to understand why Gamlen refused to move out of Lowtown.

“Er, thanks, Serrah Feddic,” he says, fumbling with Moira’s cloak while reaching for his money pouch. “Nice to, uh, see you too.”

Carver is relieved when Bodahn takes the cloak from him, shoos them into estate, and disappears before Carver’s hands can close on a coin. With a steadying breath, he takes one of Moira’s shaking hands and guides her into the dining hall.

“I’ll give you the tour later,” he says. “I don’t want to keep Mother waiting.”

Moira nods, her wide eyes darting from the silver crest hanging above the mantle to the dog-nibbled Antivan rugs carpeting every inch of grey tile. “You never said you were this rich,” she says. For the first time in almost an hour, she grins. “Carver, love. You’re a regular old _fop._ ”

“I’ll fop you,” he says, trying not to be irritated by how hungry she suddenly looks.

“When we get back.” She winks.

But they can’t continue their conversation because suddenly a strong pair of arms is around Carver’s shoulders, and at once the world smells of lavender and mulled cider and _home._

“Mother,” he says, a little embarrassed. He both loves and hates that every time she hugs him, it’s like she’s doing it for the last time. “Good to see you too.”

“Carver,” she says, a little muffled. “My dear, sweet boy. They starve you, I swear they do.”

“Mother.” He grins, pulling her back gently by the elbows. “This is Moira.”

Mother’s face lights up. “Aren’t you just _darling_ ,” she coos.

Moira scowls a little.

“We’re Templars, Mother. _Darling_ isn’t really what we go for,” Carver chuckles.

“Oh, I know that. I just--“ Mother takes one of Moira’s hands and kisses her cheek. “Sorry, dear. Nevermind me. An old woman gets so silly about her children. I’m Leandra.”

“Moira, ma’am,” she mutters, her voice low and wavering. “Um. Yes. He just said that. I mean. Um--You keep a lovely house, ma’am.”

“Oh, none of that now.” Leandra smiles and pats her on the cheek. “Besides, it’s not my house anymore. It’s my son’s. I just squat in it.” Moira smiles wanly; Carver lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Speaking of Garrett,” he says. “Where _is_ my brother?”

“He--“ Mother’s face falls. “He had to step out. I’m sure he’ll be back any moment.”

Carver tries not to roll his eyes. Just like Garrett. Everything was always about _him_. He tries not to let it bother him, not today. But he finds he just can’t help it, just a little.

“Nevermind. In the meantime,” Mother says, clapping her hands together. “We should eat, before everything gets cold.”

She leads them into the dining room, where spread out on the old oak table is a magnificent feast, fit for an entire platoon of Templars.

“Mother,” Carver says, grinning. “What’s all this?”

“It’s the second year to the day since you joined the Order,” she says, beaming. “I wanted to do something special for my boy.”

Carver’s throat feels tight. “You didn’t have to.”

“Oh shush.” She waves her hand at him. “What else am I going to do cooped up in this place all day? Let me spoil you for once. ”

Carver throws an arm around her shoulders. “Wait,” he says. “Is that--mud pie?” When she nods, he groans and squeezes her into a bear hug.

Moira can’t help herself. “Mud pie?” she asks, one eyebrow cocked high.

“He means _mince_ ,” Mother says warmly. “It was his favorite as a boy. In fact, one time I caught him--“

Carver instantly flushes. “Oh, Mother, not this story.”

But she continues on, undeterred. “--in the garden, completely covered in muck and grime, patting the soil together as carefully as you please. And when I asked him what he was up to, he said ‘ _Mud pie, Mamae. I make dinner for_ you _tonight._ ”

Moira giggles a little. “Strange. He did the same thing for the squad last night.”

He elbows her, face hot, as Mother laughs from deep within her belly. “Oh Carver,” she says, turning to him. “Your father would have _loved_ her.”

**

“And heresh the library, I think,” Carver slurs.

“You dink?” Moira stumbles against him, breasts first.

“Dunno.” He tries to right her, but ends up squeezing her hips not-so-gently and grinding against her a little. She snickers and grinds back. “So many rooms in thish blasted plashe.”

She swats the door closed and hurls herself at him, knocking them both off-balance. They slam against Garrett’s writing desk and scatter his letters like a snowstorm.

They regard each other for a moment, and then burst into laughter.

“Shorry,” she gasps out eventually.

“’sh just letters,” he says. Leaning against the desk, he grabs her hips and pulls her against him. Her lips open readily beneath his, and she tastes like mulled wine and mud pie and sex.

As he nuzzles her neck, his hand slips on a paper on the desk. Blearily, he looks down; on top of what appear to be party invitations and a pamphlet on mage rights is a small, crinkled note.

He recognizes the spidery script:

 _I came in and watered your plants. Lots of love, Merrill_

He pushes Moira away for a moment, a flood of something, everything, rising in his throat.

“You’re right,” she says, tugging on his collar with her teeth, her hands slipping under his trousers towards his bottom. “We shouldn’. Not wi’ your ma right outside.”

Carver looks at the slip of paper.

“No, Applesh, I’ve a better idea,” he says. With the deftness allotted only to the very nimble and the very drunk, he whirls her around and pushes her on Garrett’s desk, right on top of Merrill’s note. Spreading her skirts wide, he buries his tongue in the warm, wet space between her thighs until she gasps and tugs at his hair, begging him to never, ever stop.


	13. Sermons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the full text of Petrice's speech, check out the companion piece, "A Defense of the Chant in Eight Parts" at http://archiveofourown.org/works/290583

**  
_“—The Grand Cleric has asked me to share some insight on the subject of the Qunari. I am well aware that this subject is controversial, even among the faithful. There is a lot of misinformation, and it can be hard to know who to believe. But I do not seek support for my thoughts in the Chant of the Light. Rather, it is the Chant that has given me the thoughts I present here today—”_   
**

Sex is the only thing that gets Carver through sermons.

He imagines past affairs, trysts to come, trysts that will never be. A generous bottom, ridiculous hair sticking on end. The feel of pert nipples and smooth hips against his palms. Small tattooed hands grabbing his cock, lovingly taking it into a hot, wet mouth. The sounds. The smells. The sharp and tangy deliciousness of the folds between a woman’s legs.

 **  
_“—It has long been argued that ‘all religions are, at heart, the same thing’. Scholars draw comparisons between the pagan goddess of the elves Mythal and Andraste; or between the Maker and the Avvar Mountain God, Korth. But this morning, we will examine the idea a little more closely, as it pertains to the Chant and the Qun—”_   
**

He can’t stop thinking of the feel of Moira’s lips around his cock last night--the way her fat lips rubbed under his ridge, a wet slide of tongue and maybe a little teeth. She was eager, so eager. When she sucked him off, she moaned and rubbed at herself. Her breasts bounced against his knees in time with her mouth. She wanted it. Wanted him. And by the Maker he gave it to her.

 **  
_“— Qunari believe that this is not good enough. They believe men’s hearts can be corrupted, so they look to the physical Book of Koslun as their authoritative guide. But a book can be destroyed. It can be burnt. And if the physical is destroyed--as all things in this world must eventually return to the Fade--then what happens to the god that is associated with them?”_   
**

She’s good, no doubt. Better than Peaches was. Peaches was sloppy and young and hopelessly in love with his brother. But there was a certain charm to her movements, an awkward earnestness and innocence he appreciated, and when she parted her legs for him, she was so juicy for him he slipped right inside. She didn’t mind that he didn’t last long inside her. She held him anyway, until his sweat cooled and he began to shiver.

 _  
**“— must understand: The Qunari have no concept of brides or husbands. For Qunari, marriage is an abomination: They breed their people like Fereldan mabaris, matching males and females in pens like sires and bitches. Being a bride, favored by the Maker, is not a role associated with servitude or enduring the pyre’s torment, but a sin against their very way of life—”**   
_

He wonders what fucking an elf would be like. They’re so slender, graceful. He’s fucked short girls before, but elves, well, they look like they have such thin bones. You’d probably have to be very careful when you entered. You’d need to use your tongue on them a lot. Maybe some oil on your fingers, just to be sure there was enough lubrication. You probably couldn’t fuck their bottoms. But then again, he’s seen elves in battle before, even elven Templars, and he knows they can shoulder blows just as well as humans can. So maybe you could fuck their bottoms after all. They’d probably be tight, though. Really tight. You’d probably need _lots_ of oil.

 **  
_“—is absolute, and we are all just its puppets. One can easily see where the idea would arise that there are no ethical boundaries that bind the Qun, and that this could lead down a path of justifying horrible acts of brutality, oppression, even terrorism—“_   
**

He wonders what Merrill’s doing right now. If she goes to public prayers in the alienage, or if she holds them herself at her home altar. Maybe she’s at the tree, saying her devotions to Mythal. What was that she taught him again? Something about _uthenera._ He wishes he remembered better. Dalish is so beautiful, especially when she spoke it. It always sounded like singing.

 **  
_“—that the Bride so loved the world that she sacrificed herself to move the Maker’s heart. But the Qun’s supreme attribute is justice, not love. In fact, love is almost never used to describe the Qun. Love, as a word, does not exist in kossith languages—”_   
**

Merrill’s tattoos couldn’t possibly stretch all the way down her body. They probably stopped at her collarbone, her elbows. Not for the first time, he wonders if they taste different, like copper or lyrium; or if they have a different texture than the rest of her body. He imagines himself tattooing her, taking the needle to her flesh, caressing the soft, translucent skin, slowly inking circles around her belly and knees and nipples. Slipping a hand between her thighs. She would be wet there for him too.

 **  
_“—the four corners of the world. The Qunari, however, believe that if everyone on earth is converted to the Qun, they can achieve paradise on earth. Once everyone is converted, then there will be no need for a Maker, or salvation at all, because all will be as a single unit within the Qun—”_   
**

No. Moira. He must only think of her now, and others like her. Merrill is gone now. Thinking of her is only an exercise in frustration. In torment and loss.

But—

 **  
_“—The Qunari who conquered Kirkwall in 7:56 Storm, under whose bloody thumb our ancestors were ground, their children brainwashed, their parents sent to forced labor camps--they and their followers did not hijack the Qun. They simply took it seriously. When is it time we start taking it seriously too?—”_   
**

But--what _would_ Merrill say and do when he stuck himself inside her, and made her climax around him? She wouldn’t cry to the Maker like Moira does, oh no, she couldn’t. Would she cry to the Old Gods instead, her mouth hot against his shoulder? Or would she gasp wordlessly as she clenched, her eyes closed, sweat on her temples? Would she dig her fingernails into his chest and scream his name? How would that sound, his name on her lips? Would it sound like a song too? A prayer? A rebellious shout into the—

He flushes. He suddenly realizes he knows _exactly_ how it would sound.

It isn’t until everyone around him starts chanting in monotone that he realizes Mother Petrice is leading them in a guided prayer--and for once, he welcomes the distraction.


	14. Training Sessions

“Harder, Hawke,” Meredith growls, sweat dripping from her brow. Some of her hair has come loose from its band, and floats around her head like a halo. “You cannot force back your enemies unless you commit to the move.”

He nods, but it looks more like a flinch. His quadriceps burn and his calves scream with every leap, and his shoulders--well, they won’t stop wobbling, even when his arms lie flush at his sides.

But once more Meredith leaps into the air and slams her sword onto the mat. It sounds like a thunderclap rolling in from under the flagstones. “Again.”

Carver tries to jump, tries to swing his sword overhead, but this time his body simply won’t respond to his call. His boot catches on a flagstone, and he crashes, face-first, onto the practice mat. It smells like unwashed feet.

“Get up, Hawke. This is no time for jokes.”

Heavily, he drags himself up. Her mouth is a thin, tight line, her hands crossed on the pommel of her steel broadsword. Her face is flushed, shiny, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth barely visible.

“Again.”

He raises his sword overhead. He even manages to stumble a few inches into the air. But on the downstroke, his sword slides from his grip, clattering as it skips across the flagstones.

Meredith rolls her eyes, but he’s too tired even to be embarrassed.

He trots as fast he can to retrieve his sword. He barely manages a walking pace. When he returns to her side, he can’t help it; he bends over to stretch out his protesting legs.

“Perhaps Shattering Blow is too advanced a move for you yet,” she mutters, watching him, gaze even and cold.

He tries to right himself immediately, but the shaking in his thighs, violent and insistent, cannot be quelled.

“Knight Commander--” he says. He takes a steadying breath, willing his muscles to stop their convulsions. “Why are we doing this? The move, I mean.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Do you regret learning it?”

“No, no,” Carver rolls his foot around, stretching out his screaming ankle. “Only--I thought the point was to hunt mages. Not fight alongside them.”

Her eyes narrow, and she is as still as stone. “The point, Carver, was never to _hunt_ mages. The point is to protect them.”

“But-- _ah_ ,” he gasps, hitting a spot on his ankle that makes him see stars. “But if our mages stay in the Circle, what need is there to learn techniques we’d only use if we were fighting alongside them?”

She looks away, toward the setting sun over the docks. It takes her a few moments to answer, but when she does, her voice is low. Dangerous.

“One day--and one day soon,” she says, “we will all of us be called upon to protect this city from outside threats. When that day comes, we must all be prepared in our own way.”

“You mean the Qunari, right?”

Her eyes drift back to him. “Our enemies will not distinguish between mage and Templar. They will only know to kill,” she says softly.

Carver shudders, but he doesn’t know if it’s from his aching muscles or something else entirely.

“Does that frighten you, Ser Hawke?” Her face is impassive, unreadable.

“No,” he lies.

Meredith sighs. She efficiently cocks her head to the side once, twice, cracking her neck, stretching the muscle. “We have given you your sun-shield earlier than any other recruit, Hawke,” she says icily. “Do not make me regret it.” She hoists her sword. “Now. _Again_.”


	15. Dissension I: Security Detail

For mid-afternoon, this corner of Lowtown is strangely quiet, the streets bare even of whores and drunks. Carver tries not to let the silence rattle him, but after squatting here for two years, he knows that a quiet Lowtown means a dangerous Lowtown, one with secrets in hand worth keeping close.

He wonders if the district was always this quiet when the Templars came by--back then, he was never around to find out.

“Dunno why Cullen wants us playin’ with knife-ears,” grouses Ser Mettin.

The squad captain, an older Templar named Agatha, shrugs. “When the viscount calls in favors, you listen.”

“This ain’t Templar detail. What do we look like, _guards_?” He huffs.

Agatha rolls her eyes. “Right? I hear the new Guard-Captain’s up to her ears,” she says. Mettin snorts loudly, and she smirks. “New guard, same as the old. Just as incompetent as ever.”

“Always up to _us_ to clean up their messes,” Mettin agrees.

For one brief moment, Carver considers defending Aveline--but decides against it. This is his first detail as a full Templar, and he doesn’t want anything to go wrong. Also, he realizes suddenly, he doesn’t really like Aveline all that much anymore. He wonders why he ever did.

They round the corner, and there is a sound, finally: a faint female voice, rising and falling with the same cadence as the Chantry sisters who preach in the pulpit.

Carver’s boot snags a piece of paper, and he looks down. Between the wrinkles and the mud stains, he can make out the blocky letters “FREE ELVES” and “KIRKWALL”, with a wicked looking cartoon of a blood-streaked kossith warrior.

Carver grits his teeth. _Varric._ His is the only printing press in Lowtown.

 _Maker._ Can’t Garrett’s friends stay out of trouble for one week?

As the squad nears the alienage, Carver can start to pick out words—

 _“--as if the shems weren’t bad enough. We lose our children: first to the factories, now to the Qunari. We lose our culture: first from steel swords and coin, now from oxmen. The shems, they’ve taken everything from us. They’ve crammed us in here like nugs. Yet they run in fear of those grey demons, they offer us up as sacrifices, like the Tevinters of old--“_

As one, the squad tromps down the steps into the alienage. The vhenadahl tree spreads its branches across the courtyard like a blue canopy, ash all the way from the Foundry District catching on the leaves like dirty snow. At the sight, Carver’s heart leaps. But when he sees the crowd of elves--at least a hundred, even a few children--gathered around the tree’s roots, his heart instead begins to hammer in alarm.

Standing on one of Mythal’s offering altars is a blonde elven woman. She is lithe, dirty, angry. She looks a little like Athenril.

“Our chains may be broken,” she says, her hands slicing the air. Her voice, soaring, beautiful, pierces the hush in the courtyard. “But none of us, none are truly free. Not when our former Qunari overlords are sent here to _retrieve_ us.”

The woman notices them at last. She points at the squad like she’s leading a cavalry charge, and a hundred faces turn as one.

“The Chantry teaches the shems that we are their slaves,” she sneers, “made by their Maker to fight in their armies and work in their factories and do their dirty work. So they send Templars to silence me,” she gestures at the squad, “because what I have to say scares them.”

“But we will not be silenced.” The elf lowers her voice to a normal speaking tone, which Carver can still hear easily, too easily. She meets Carver’s eyes, her pale green eyes like lanterns. “One day, Templars, we will take back what is _ours.”_

At this, Ser Agatha starts walking into the crowd, hands outstretched but sword sheathed. “Alright, that’s enough,” she says in a firm voice. “Show’s over. Back to your homes.”

The rest of the squad follows suit to disperse the crowd. The blonde elf, of course, vanishes.

Carver doesn’t recognize most of the elves milling here, but everywhere he sees the flash of green, of dark hair against tattooed skin; a ghost taunting him as it possesses child and elder alike. _She_ is nowhere to be found, and he doesn’t know if he feels relieved or disappointed.

His eyes eventually drift to Nyssa’s empty fruit stand, and the overhang, and then her closed front door. She’s right there. Or, at least, she could be. Maybe. Close. Very close.

He wonders if he should warn her about this, about the rumors he’s heard, even in the Gallows. But then he flushes. Of course she knows. It’s happening right on her doorstep. She might even be involved. Certainly if _Varric_ is, then—

On her doorstep, she has set out a potted plant: a small cluster of young daisies. But in the confusion, someone has knocked the heavy planter over, spilling the flowers and loose black soil along the street.

He stares at the dark soil for several seconds. Then quickly, before Ser Agatha or anyone else can notice, he rights the planter, scooping as much of the spilled dirt as he can back into the pot. Gently, he dusts the soil off the flowers, his metal gauntlet too large for the soft, delicate petals, but they spring back against his touch anyway. He stands, satisfied.

When he comes back to the square later that afternoon, the planter is gone, dirt smudged on the front step in long tracks that disappear under the closed door.

For a moment, Carver regards the house: the shut door, the drawn curtains in the window, the small pile of leftover black dirt still pyramiding on the step.

Then he sighs and walks away.


	16. Dissension II: The Press Is Mightier Than The Crossbow

“Dwarf, don’t lie to me.” Carver folds his arms. “I know you’re the one behind those mage pamphlets.”

Varric kneels at his printing press as if it were an altar. All wheels and rivets, the surprisingly sturdy contraption is clearly well-oiled and well-tuned; even now, as it churns out block-cut broadsides, the whirring gears sound as if they’re purring.

Without looking at Carver, the dwarf stands up. His knees crack. “Nope,” he says, sucking in air through his clenched teeth. “That one’s all Blondie.”

He takes a rag from a nearby table and rubs at a speck of minuscule dirt on the press’s brass name plate; it gleams even in the low light, and Carver can see a few of its letters: “BIA”.

“But you’re the one _printing_ them,” Carver says. “And the anti-Qunari posters circulating in the alienage.”

“Look,” he says, shrewd eyes momentarily flicking to Carver’s. Carver thinks he sees a question there, but he’s not sure what exactly that question might be. “I just print what people pay me to print.”

“Well, I’m offering to pay you too. And unlike your usual customers, the Order can offer you actual _money_.”

“Sorry, Junior. Schedule’s all booked up. Come back in a month, maybe.” Varric drops the rag back on the table, where it hangs precariously off a small pot of daisies, and ambles over to a work bench. In one swift motion, he upends a large bin of mixed letter blocks. They scatter cacophonously along the ink-stained wood. Varric begins sorting them, one by one, letter by letter.

Carver runs a hand through his hair, tugging a little at his bangs. “Varric. What’s the big deal? It’s just some curfew notices. They wouldn’t even need to circulate outside the alienage.”

Varric shrugs. “Wish I could help.”

“You could do some good for this town. Make a difference. Help keep people safe.”

The dwarf makes no indication he heard, just keeps sorting the letters, _V_ from _B_ , _I_ from _A._

“Fine.” Carver lets out a sharp exhale. “You want it to be this way? It can be this way.”

He stalks over to the table where Varric has suddenly gone very still. Carver jabs his forefinger onto the wood so hard that the nearby blocks rattle.

“I came here because they know about you, Varric. You and your _operation._ ” He watches the dwarf, waits for him to make a move, any move, to indicate that he has heard. That he is paying attention. Nothing.

Carver sighs. He picks up a letter _C_ and runs his thumb along the outer edge. For some reason, the act makes him feel slightly powerful—but maybe also a little off-balance. It doesn’t feel like him, but at the same time, it _does._

Somehow, this whole meeting went wrong. Very wrong. He was only trying to help.

So he tries once more. “Look, I came down here because I didn’t want someone else to come here instead and,” Carver pauses significantly, “ _ask_ you.”

Varric finally moves, placing his hands on the table, the veins and tendons popping out in stark relief against his skin. Slowly, carefully, he turns his head to meet Carver’s gaze.

Carver has never before seen the dwarf angry, and now he knows why, for Varric’s fury is an ugly, broken thing: all teeth and blotched flesh, the muscles twisting at wrong angles, eyebrows careening dangerously over his brow. With frightening quickness, he snatches the letter block from Carver’s hand and clenches his fist around it so completely it disappears. In that moment, Varric seems as tall as a mountain.

“You can tell the _Templars,_ ” the dwarf seethes, eyes burning, fierce, violent, “I won’t do their dirty work for them.”

Then he leans back, his face once again rearranged into the placid, good-natured mask he always wears. Casually he drops the letter block into a small pile of _C_ s.

“Besides, Junior, it’s not my press,” he says, voice even. “It’s my cousin’s.”

Varric grins, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.


	17. Dissension III: Diamondback

The door opens and immediately, Carver gags on smoke and the smell of stale, spilt beer. It’s a familiar miasma thicker than any chokedamp. He hasn’t been to the Hanged Man in two years, and yet the smells bring it all back: the late nights and early mornings in Athenril’s employ, stumbling here soaked in sewage and entrails, holding onto a mug of lukewarm ale as if it were a life-raft. Sometimes, back then, when Garrett was really exhausted, he’d sling an arm around his brother’s shoulders and talk of Ferelden, or Bethany, or Father, and Carver would barely resist punching him.

Inside the Hanged Man the light is warm, if not particularly cheery. Tonight all the usual drunks hold court, draped across their chairs like kings in thrones; they haven’t moved much in two years. Neither has Isabela, who leans against the bar, not looking at him, not looking at anyone.

Cullen nods at a table near the fire, and the five of them follow, out of armor but still in formation. Carver arrives at the table last, so he doesn’t have to worry about where to sit; he slides into a chair next to the Knight-Captain.

“Cards,” Cullen says.

Maron pulls a pack from his pouch and tosses it on the table. Agatha begins to shuffle them.

“Smokes,” he says, and Mettin produces a small wooden box from his side pouch.

Cullen looks at Carver, the hint of a smile on his lips. “Well?” he says. “What’d you bring?”

“Nothing,” Carver says. His cheeks burn. “Didn’t know I needed to.”

Cullen’s lips twitch. “Hope you brought your money pouch, at least,” he says.

Agatha and Mettin chuckle a little.

Carver scowls at them both and meets Cullen’s eyes as defiantly as he dares. “Hope you brought yours.”

Across the table, Maron erupts into a deep, rumbling laugh so loud it draws Isabela’s gaze.

***

“Do you miss Ferelden?” Cullen hands the box of cigars to Carver.

For a moment, Carver holds it in his hands as if it were glass. Then, slowly, he removes a cigar. He passes the box onto Mettin, who gives him a funny look.

“What’s there to miss?” Carver says, brows knit.

Cullen shrugs. “I don’t know. I miss it from time to time. Particularly snow. And those little pies they made in winter—“

“Mince?” Maron smiles wistfully and taps the end of his cigar on the table before lighting it.

“That’s the one,” Cullen replies, lighting his cigar. “They used to make great mince pies back in Kinloch. Have a slice and a nip of brandy, and those midnight shifts suddenly didn’t feel so long.”

“Well, I don’t miss anything,” Carver says petulantly. Hesitantly, he taps the end of his cigar on the table too.

“Don’t be daft, Hawke,” Maron says, his words punctuated with smoke. “Lothering was a nice enough pigpoke. Definitely fewer runaway robes about there, I tell you what.”

“How long were you stationed there?” Carver tries to keep the old wariness out of his voice. “I don’t remember you.”

“Six months.” Maron folds his hands behind his head. “You remember every Templar came ‘cross that town then, Hawke?”

Carver shrugs. “Guess I always had my eye on the Order,” he says carefully.

Agatha smiles at Carver as if she were sharing some private joke. “I know what you mean,” she says softly. “Well, rookie. Is it everything you’d hoped it would be?”

Carver looks around the table at the four faces, two Fereldan, two Marcher, all looking at him--perhaps not with respect, not yet, but at least as an equal. “I suppose it is,” he says.

***

“You guys hear about the Mythic-Len? Raise.” Mettin tosses in some chips.

“Mytha _llen_ ,” Carver corrects him, tossing in chips from his own dwindling pile.

“Well ain’t you just Brother Genitivi,” the older man says, but the easy smirk hanging off his lips is one of intoxication, not malice. Or at least Carver hopes it is.

“What’s a mythallen?” Maron asks. His chip pile is gone. Long ago he tossed his cards into the center of the table, satisfied to smoke his cigars in peace.

Mettin looks to Carver and waggles his hand. “Well. Tell the man.”

“Means ‘child of vengeance’,” Carver says, trying not to blush. “In Dalish.”

“Carver here’s our resident Dalish scholar,” Agatha says, frowning at her cards. “Fold.”

Carver shrugs at Cullen’s questioning look. “I had a--friend once. She taught me some words. Raise.”

“So,” he says, eyes narrowed. “Why should I have heard of a child of vengeance?” Cullen tosses in some chips from his considerable pile.

“Fold,” Mettin says, tossing his cards to the center of the table. “She’s been printing up pamphlets in the alienage. We found more the other day.”

“We still don’t know it’s a she,” Carver insists. But he too saw the Mythallen sigil, all curves and branches; and he knows he’s seen it before--that few city elves would be familiar enough with exact shape and color of vallaslin to so knowingly call it out.

“It always is among the elves,” says Mettin. “Women’s the only ones that do anything. Men just sit around and drink.”

“And get their ears caught in the factory gears,” Agatha snickers.

Maron sucks on the stub of his cigar loudly. “So… pamphlets?”

“Anti-Qunari pamphlets,” Carver says.

“Anti- _everything_ pamphlets,” Mettin corrects him. “Girl’s trying to stir the pot, rise the knife ears against us. I tell you, Cullen, it’s a good thing the Viscount called us there when he did. If we’d left this shitstorm up to the city guard, there’d have been riots by now.”

“Still might be,” Agatha says. “Knife ears are never happy.”

Mettin nods. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Cullen rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I should post a larger detail there. Elves do seem to have a tendency toward blood magic in times of stress. And I have heard some… disturbing reports recently.”

Carver’s stomach lurched. “About?” He hoped nobody noticed how strangled his voice sounded.

“Apostates. What else?” Cullen rolled his eyes. “My sources weren’t specific, but they did say one of them has a strange artifact--a mirror that doesn’t reflect. Could be blood magic. Or just more rumors. Who knows.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for it next time I’m there,” Carver says.

Cullen shrugs and smirks. “Sure, kid. You do that.”

***

“Call.” Cullen lays his cards down. Three diamonds and a four of queens.

Carver looks at his hand and fights back a grin. “Two clerics and a five of diamonds,” he says. “Hand ‘em over, Knight-Captain.”

“You’re a mean Diamondback player, Hawke,” Cullen says appreciatively as Carver leans over the table to collect his winnings. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to let your commanding officer win a hand or two?”

Carver eyes Cullen warily. “Would you really consider that winning?”

“Fair enough,” Cullen laughs, slapping Carver on the shoulder. “But next time, Moneybags, you’re bringing the smokes.”

“Next time,” Carver repeats.

He allows himself a small smile.


	18. Dissension IV: At the Vhenadahl Tree

“Carver, Carver!” A little boy no more than eight or nine, his ears sticking out like dragon wings, runs up to Carver’s squad. His face is flushed, his arms flailing. What is his name again? Carver can’t for the life of him remember, although something about the boy’s face makes him think of Athenril.

“What is it, _da’len_?” Carver tries to bend down to the boy’s height, but in his armor the best he can do is a sort of pitched-forward lean. He can feel Agatha and Mettin’s eyes rolling. But the boy is agitated-- _sweating_ ; elves, even children, rarely sweat.

Hands on knees, the boy tries to catch his breath. “My name--isn’t Dallen. It--it’s _Vir_.”

“Yes, of course, Vir.” Carver says, sheepishly. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s the tree,” he pants. “They’re cutting it down.”

Carver’s face falls. “Oh. That’s not good.”

“Come on!” He takes Carver’s gauntlet in both of his hands and tugs. Carver stumbles forward.

“Wait, Hawke,” Agatha commands. Carver holds his other hand up to Vir and turns back to his commanding officer. He’d almost forgotten she was there. “It’s a _tree_.”

“It’s not just any tree, Ser.” He racks his brain for the quickest way to condense hundreds of years of history he barely understands. “It’s _the_ tree. The only tree in the city.”

Agatha frowns. “It’s a tree,” she repeats. “Surely they’re just _pruning_ it.”

“Just--trust me on this,” Carver says, looking in turn to all six members of his squad, whose faces betray various levels of confusion and irritation. Heart in his throat, he wheels on Vir. “Who’s cutting it down?”

Vir’s eyes flicker with fear. “The Mythallen.”

Carver looks back at Agatha, whose eyes have narrowed like a wolf catching a scent. She nods to Carver. “Vir,” he says, placing his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Find some place safe. Go to Lirene’s, or stay here in the market—”

But Vir shakes his head. “My sister’s in there, Carver. I can’t leave her.”

“Vir-”

“No,” he says. And before Carver can press the issue further, the boy wriggles away and sprints off toward the old quarter.

Suddenly it all comes back to him: Playing chase-and-catch around the vhenadahl tree, sunlight tangling in its branches, the smell of squashed fruit and summer chokedamp. Chasing each other around the thick red-painted trunk, hair in eyes, limbs flailing. Tackling the boy to the packed earth; allowing himself to be tackled. He even got Merrill to join in once or twice, but she didn’t seem to understand the idea of letting a man go once she’d caught him--her slender arms snaking tightly around his waist, face pressed into his hip. He flushes at the memory.

Carver runs ahead with long quick strides, armor clattering. He catches up to the boy, who waits for him, arms crossed, under a cluster of halla banners at the edge of the old quarter.

“Don’t tell me to go away again,” he says.

“I won’t,” Carver replies softly. He regards the boy for a long moment. “You’ve aged, Vir.”

“I’m a man now.” The boy’s voice is high, but his gaze is steady, challenging.

“Are you?” Carver looks back to see the rest of his squad rounding the quarter by Gamlen’s house, Agatha’s face tight, efficient, devoid of emotion. She is giving orders to the other men.

“Yes.” Vir’s chest puffs out proudly. “Got a job in the factory and everything.”

“Well.” Carver nods at him, man to man. “That is something.”

“Carver,” Agatha calls out to him as she nears. “You’re point-man. But if she wants to talk, I’ll take care of it.”

He nods. “Vir. At least try to stay out of the way? For me?”

“A man does not hide,” he replies, but he lets Carver and the squad pass him by anyway.

As they approach the alienage, Carver can start to make out the rumble of the crowd: the jeers, the chants, the claps, the swell and the unceasing roar. It sounds like a waterfall off in the distance, raging just out of sight.

And then he hears them, clarion voices, ringing sharp and righteous above the rest:

 _“Our past holds us back—“_

 _“Back, stand back!”_

 _“We cling to it, and they use it against us—“_

 _“Get down from there, knife-ear—“_

 _“Tear down your oppression! Children, be free!”_

Carver’s squad rounds the corner just as the first axe strikes the tree, lightning snakes down from the sky, and the riot begins in earnest.


	19. Dissension V: Starlings in Flight

All at once, things get very loud.

A confusion of colors, of sounds; of screaming; of pounding feet. Before him surges a mass of dirty faces and bright hair and pointed ears, and a few--too few--guardsmen forming a broken line of orange and silver against one of the walls. Motion everywhere, fists flying, the stampede pushing against itself, in all directions and none at all. Some try to move toward the tree, but most away; and some merely swirl around each other like whirlpools, pulling passers-by into their violence.

Back in Lothering, in the late autumn, starlings would alight on the Imperial Highway ruins by the thousands, all chattering and fluffing and preening, flocking there until their wings obscured the gleaming white marble and turned it black and vile. This is like that, Carver thinks, except these birds won’t fly away; they will surge and surge, and they will consume the city whole.

Carver can’t breathe, can’t think. Even the darkspawn outside Lothering came at him one by one. But this, this panicked herd, this _mob_ is an ocean, threatening to catch him in its riptide. He needs to pee, to run, to cry, to scream. Something. Anything. Anything at all.

A younger elf climbs onto one of the crates that serve as altars to Mythal. Yelling wordlessly, he hurls an axe head at the vhenadhal tree. Lightning once again erupts from the air.

Carver doesn’t see the blade fall, because then he too is moving, running toward the lightning strike, toward the crowd, following Agatha’s hand signals and the gleam of Templar armor. However he does see the man fall to his knees, his hands blackened and shriveled. The man shrieks, but the crowd swallows his voice.

Carver leads with his sunshield. He pushes into the crowd and is quickly swallowed, buffeted even in his heavy armor. Everywhere there is screaming. Sweat. Fear. A copper-tinged tongue. “Calm down.” Shaking hands. A bright flash, and a gurgle. He steps on someone’s hand. Mud in his eyes. Wide green eyes. The taste of summer storms. “Cease and desist.” He can’t even hear his own voice. Lightning again from somewhere, everywhere. Someone yanks at the sword on his back. Stumbling. A wild punch. Dust. Blood. Salt on his lips. “Back to your homes.” Torn shirts. A child sobbing. Roaring. Fingers. Vomit. Yanked hair. His breath. Shrieking. Motion, everywhere motion, everywhere swirling, starlings in flight, a sword blade drawn, the smell of death and fear--

He brings two fingers to his forehead and thinks, _cleanse._

Suddenly several elves around him stop, their limbs dangling, head drooped; puppets with their strings cut.

“Thank the Maker,” he whispers.

But then they are shoved to the side and fall to the ground, as other elves crash into them from behind and the side. Their prone bodies quickly disappear into—under--the crowd.

Carver inhales and exhales, fighting back panic.

 _trampled death guilt sweat fear starlings death flight_

He has an idea.

Without drawing the blade off his back, he leaps into the air and comes crashing down in a perfect simulacrum of a Shattering Blow. The lyrium-infused force of his impact pushes the tide of elves back, away from the prone bodies, which now are bloodied, their limbs twisted in strange angles.

One of them stirs. Immediately Carver hurls himself to his knees and pulls the man to his feet. The elf regains his footing, and Carver shoves him toward what he thinks is the direction of the exit.

Then he’s back on his knees, dragging another prone elf out of the fray. Her eyes remain closed. He leans her against an adobe wall as far away from feet as he can. She bleeds from her temple, mud and glass mixed into the blood. Her neck lolls.

Once more back in. His hands close around ankles. He drags the body away just before a boot lands on its cheek. He looks behind him. The injured woman is still leaning against the wall. He pulls the body towards her. His arms shake a little. His vision stutters.

But suddenly the body is lighter. He looks back toward the chaos.

 _She_ is there, a vision, a salvation. Her slender hands close around the body’s wrists. Her green eyes are wide, frightened, but her lips pinch into a thin, resolute line, and he doesn’t know whether to kiss her or arrest her, so he just blinks away everything and continues to drag the body to the wall.


	20. Dissension VI: Old Friends

Closing the door with her bottom, the two of them crabwalk into her house and lay yet another prone body on her floor. Seventeen now, strewn like elf-shaped rag-dolls on the floor. None of them are moving, not even the children. But all still breathe, at least, and that’s something.

Sol will be here soon. He can handle the rest.

It’s quieter outside now, and that’s something too. With a few well-timed Smites and Cleanses, Carver’s squad managed to disperse the crowd rather effectively. Agatha even felt confident enough to leave him behind alone to handle clean up, at least until Sol arrives.

Merrill surveys the room, and, after a moment, she picks up a chair and places it on top of her table. She’s as graceful as always, pirouetting among the dying, and so much stronger than she looks—but of course he always knew that about her. Today, though, he hates her for it.

“So,” he says.

She narrows her eyes. “So.”

“So.”

“You already said that.”

He inhales sharply. She won’t make him feel ridiculous. Not today. “So you decide to help your people after all.”

She wheels to face him, her nostrils flaring. “And what does that mean?”

“It means maybe your clan was right.” He folds his arms in front of him. “Maybe your help does hurt everyone around you.”

“You’re one to talk, _Templar.”_ Her hands clench around the chair legs, little white fists.

“At least I’m not starting riots. Charming new hobby of yours, that.”

She doesn’t look at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t act innocent with me, Merrill.” He takes a step forward, nudging his boot past a limp hand. “We’re past that, you and me.”

“Carver, I don’t know what you think you know.” Her jaw tightens. “But you don’t know it. Not even what I know.”

He frowns, but shakes his head. _Not today._ He jabs his finger in the air. “Don’t try to dance out of this, maleficar.”

Merrill turns slowly to him, jaw slack, as if he’d slapped her.

“Carver,” she says quietly.

He drops his hand and closes his eyes against the hurt in hers. “I can’t believe you. First the pamphlets, now riots—how does _this_ help your people?”

“I didn’t do either of those things,” she says. “I tried to stop them.”

“Oh yes. I saw you stopping them.” He frowns. “You melted that man’s hands, Merrill.”

She says nothing for a moment, makes no acknowledgement he has spoken. “I tried to stop this, Carver. I truly did. But she just wouldn’t listen.”

“ _She?_ Wait. So you mean--so it wasn’t--“ His mouth goes dry, his legs suddenly feel weak. “Oh, thank the Maker. I thought it was _you.”_

She turns to him, brows knitted together in a sharp line. “ _It?_ ”

“The one behind all this.” She continues to frown at him without blinking. “The Child of Vengeance. The Mythallen.”

She does not move for many heartbeats.

“ _Children,_ Carver,” she says eventually, carefully. “Mythallen also means _children _of vengeance.”__

 _“Oh,” he says, then pauses. “Oh.”_

 _“Yes.” She squares her shoulders. “So go on. Arrest me then. Do it already, if you’re going to, or make me Tranquil. Just get it over with.”_

 _“Tranquil? What? Wait--no, I--“ He drags a gauntleted hand through his hair, but it scrapes his scalp painfully. “Merrill. _Maker._ You can’t believe I’d--“ He squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly tired, angry, hopeful, hurt--a thousand emotions at once. “Are--are you? You know. One of them?”_

He hears her suck in her breath. “No,” she says, but her voice wavers.

“Merrill—“

“I don’t care if you believe me, Carver.” He opens his eyes, but she isn’t looking at him. Her arms are folded across her chest, and she stares at the door, as if she expects an ogre to burst through at any moment. “I don’t.”

She meets his eyes then and looks right through him, as she always did. Except now he holds the gaze, unyielding, unafraid.

 _Good,_ he thinks. He always knew how to handle a direct challenge.

“Merrill,” he says firmly. “We used to be friends. And even if that means nothing to you, it still means something to me.”

“I don’t need your favors,” she says. “You have your duty, I have mine. You owe me nothing.”

“Right.” He turns, precise, military, and marches toward the door. But his hand lingers on the door handle. He turns back.

“I made you a promise, Merrill,” he says softly, eyes holding hers. “And I keep my promises. Always.”

She says something, but he doesn’t hear, because he is already out the door, gone, away before he loses his nerve.


	21. Dissension VII: Nothing Stronger Than A Promise Kept

Carver leans against the vhenadhal tree, his fingertips testing its new scars: several gouges here, a scorch mark there. He finds a splash of blood and tries to wipe it off with his skirt, but it is already tacky and smears along the bark like warpaint.

As he wipes, he notices several other white marks along the tree bark, faded wounds perhaps, or maybe just ant tracks, or just natural discolorations formed by a forest tree forced to grow among chokedamp.

He hears her door open. “Carver,” she says, and her voice is softer now, sadder, the way he remembers it, the way he still hears it in the Fade.

He does not look at her, just continues pressing his fingertips into the white marks. Dozens of them are here, more than he’d ever realized before. This one, he thinks, looks like a pair of initials.

“Carver, I—“

A door in the closed alienage gate screeches open, and Sol steps through the rusted metal with Moira, Paxley, and a few other recruits. Carver tries not to be annoyed that Agatha’s promised reinforcements amount to an herbalist and a bunch of ripe cherries.

“Carver!” shouts a smoky voice, and suddenly he is attacked by a flurry of squealing metal and ridiculous hair. The force of the impact staggers him a little, wheels him in his tracks. “Oh thank the Maker.”

Carver’s eyes flick over to Merrill, but she is not looking at him. A thin line has formed between her brows.

“Moira,” he says, closing his hands around her back and pulling her to him briefly. “Time and a place, love.”

She leans back from him without letting go. “Don’t tell me to calm down, Hawke. You were just in a riot,” she says sternly, sensibly. She jabs her finger on his breastplate. “I’m allowed to be a little relieved.”

Carver flushes but smiles anyway.

Still, Moira lets him go then and resumes a military posture, although not before winking at him. Carver thinks he catches Paxley rolling his eyes, but today he cares much less than he once would have.

“Recruits,” Carver says briskly. “Break into units of three. Sweep the alienage. If you find any injured, bring them here.”

“And if we run into apostates?” says Paxley.

He hears Merrill shift behind him.

“Remember your training,” Carver says simply. He waves his gauntlet. “Sol, you’re with me.”

Sol nods to Carver, unfailingly polite as always, the broad expanse of his forehead pale and unmarred. Good old loyal Sol. The tat-less Trank, some of the old timers call him, though Carver still remembers the first time he met the old herbalist, and how loudly the man laughed then at Garrett’s dumb jokes. At least someone did.

“Where are they?” Sol says, mildly.

“Through here,” Carver says. Merrill steps aside and harrumphs quietly as the two of them tromp into her house without so much as a second glance.

“Maker preserve us,” Sol whispers when he sees the seventeen bodies lying on the floor. The air is staler than Carver realized. Somewhere a fly buzzes. “Are there more?”

“Probably,” Carver says. “That’s what the cherries will figure out.”

“Well,” he says, rolling up his robe sleeves. “Let’s get to work. Carver, I’ll need water. Young lady, do you have rags on hand?”

Merrill nods and runs into her back room. Carver takes a small bowl from her cooking table and follows her into the washroom. His eyes land on the strange, cracked mirror in her bedroom, which still does not appear to reflect.

He squeezes past her in the hallway. “We’ll be out of here soon,” he says, inches from her ear. “I promise.”

He feels her shiver.

When he comes back out to the front room, Sol is already helping one older elvhen man sit up. “Drink this,” Sol commands, his hands tinged in blue. “I will set your leg.”

He lays his fingers on the man’s leg. There is a crunching sound, and a sapphire flash. The elf sighs in relief.

“Sol, you’re a spirit healer,” Carver cannot keep the wonder from his voice.

He shrugs. “I only know a little. Helps with potion-making.” He turns back to his charge. “Test it for me.”

The elvhen man stands up, hops up and down.

“Good,” he says. “You stay out of riots, hear me?”

The man glances briefly at Merrill and scampers out of the house as quickly as he can. Merrill folds her arms and looks down at the floor, small, lost.

Sol flits among the bodies like a butterfly, sometimes calling for water or rags, sometimes just asking for help holding a heavy head or chest. Eventually Paxley’s unit returns, and enters the house too. At the sight of them, Merrill folds herself into the shadows.

“Lots of books on blood magic here,” one of the cherries says, gazing at the bookcase. Merrill does not flinch.

“It’s all in elfish. It could be anything,” says the other. “For all we know, it could be a bunch of halla porn.”

The two of them chuckle drily, but Paxley remains quiet. He stands at the doorless jamb of the bedroom, peering intently within.

“Weird mirror,” he says. Paxley turns to Merrill. “Is this yours?”

Carver’s stomach sinks. He remembers it now: the cigar smoke and the watered-down ale, and winning at cards, and Cullen talking about the strange mirror. Paxley wouldn’t know about that conversation, of course, but that didn’t matter, not with Paxley’s propensity for gossip.

“No,” Carver says, before Merrill can interrupt. “When we got here, the house’s occupant was nowhere to be found.”

Paxley shrugs and looks back to the mirror. Briefly, Carver meets Merrill’s eyes, but he turns his head to look at Sol before anyone can see.

Too late: Sol already regards him with a curious, thoughtful expression. Suddenly he wishes the man truly were Tranquil.

The woman under Sol’s fingers blinks and pushes herself up on her elbows, and he averts his attention to helping her stand.

“That’s the last of them, I think,” he says, shoulders sagging.

Suddenly the door opens. Moira walks in, cradling a little boy in her arms.

Merrill squeaks and runs over to her, snatching the child from Moira’s hands and laying him gently on the ground. Stunned, and maybe a little annoyed, Moira puts her hands on her hips.

“Nevermind me,” she says peevishly. “Friend of yours?”

Merrill doesn’t look at her.

“Oh, no,” she moans. “Vir.”


	22. Dissension VIII: Names

Carver squints against the mid-afternoon sun. It’s brighter here in the alienage than back in the Gallows, where the towers block out most of the winter light. It’s not much warmer, though, especially for a Templar encased in a suit of metal. He shivers.

But then he remembers Lothering, and the way the snow there used to drift softly to catch in Mother’s hair; how feet and feet of the stuff would pile on their roof, sometimes slipping off in great crashes when it became too heavy; and how he and Bethy used to sculpt misshapen mabaris out of the fresh-fallen pack; and suddenly, violently, he hates himself for finding Kirkwall winters anything other than tolerably balmy.

He sighs, wondering how much longer this will take. Sol has been at Vir’s side for almost two hours now; Carver tells himself it’s because Sol had been healing all morning, so his mana already was low when Moira brought in the boy. But Carver knows the truth. Therefore he long ago sent the cherries back to the Gallows, and gave Sol the space he didn’t need (or even ask for) to complete his work.

Most Templars would hover, but Carver trusts Sol, and Sol trusts Carver, maybe because one time years ago they thought the same dumb joke was funny—stronger bonds had been forged over less. If Vir can be saved, Sol will save him. Now all Carver can do is wait.

So he waits. Outside. In the cold that isn’t cold.

Merrill opens the door and steps out on the stoop.

“Is he done?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. His skull’s back to the normal shape now, though.”

“Bless the Maker for small victories,” he mutters.

She gives him a strange look, but whatever question is on her lips, she doesn’t utter it. Instead, she folds her arms across her chest and leans against the adobe wall of her house.

“So. Hawke.” She gives Carver a sidelong glance. “She calls you Hawke.”

Carver, standing rigidly at attention, glares at her. “Many people do.”

“But doesn’t it confuse you? Everyone calling you the same thing they call your brother.”

“It’s my name too.” He hears how sharp his voice is, and doesn’t care. “In case you’d forgotten.”

“Oh,” and he gets the distinct impression she _had_ forgotten. “But it just sounds so formal, so old and stuffy. _Ser Hawke._ I don’t think it suits you at all.”

“It’s my name. How can it not suit me?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t understand it either.”

“Does it sound old and stuffy when you call my brother ‘Hawke’?”

“No.” He hates the dreamy look that flashes across her face, and he hates how quickly it’s gone, leaving him to wonder if it was even there—or if this is just the first time he’s noticed it. “But he’s got a beard. And he’s a nobleman now. Plus, he likes coats with feathers on them.”

Carver sighs, too tired to truly be angry anymore. “Is there a point to this, Merrill?”

“It’s just—“ She looks at her feet. “I became so used to you as Carver, my Carver. It’s hard to think of you as a Hawke, too.”

He hates the way his heart skips when she says _my Carver._

“I’m not growing a beard just to make you like my name more,” he says.

The corners of her lips twitch upwards tentatively. “Good, because I think you’d look ridiculous with a beard. You’d look like a fuzzy golem. Also it might get caught in your helmet.”

“I don’t know about that.” He smiles uneasily. “Plenty of Templars have beards.”

She nods, thoughtful. “I suppose you could always ask them for pointers on how to wear one. Like Isabela and her boots.”

He can’t fight off the smirk that creeps on his lips. “What now?”

“Isabela.” There’s that dreamy look again, but Carver doesn’t mind it so much this time. “I was asking her how you walked in shoes,” she holds up her foot and waggles it, “if you put your heel first or the ball of your foot, or if your toes get confused when they can’t feel the dirt. So she promised to give me shoe-wearing lessons.”

Despite himself, he laughs. “I like that you don’t wear shoes, Merrill.”

The tips of her ears turn pink. “And I like that you don’t have a beard.” She smiles at him. “Hawke.”

He wants to smile back, but for some reason, he doesn’t like how the name sounds on her lips. He much preferred _Carver_ , or even _my Carver_. So instead he turns his gaze to the vhenadahl tree and waits for Sol to finish, in the cold that somehow doesn’t feel so cold anymore.


	23. A Hawke In Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for falling off the wagon with the daily posting, guys! I've been updating on my Tumblr as usual, just not here. Fair warning -- expect an incoming update spam!

Carver runs in long, loping strides; over rocks and fern tangles, around smashed crates and elfroot plants. He runs until his legs scream, until each breath is a knife in his side. Yet he cannot stop now, because he must outpace the barge, and the Templar squad it carries. He must outpace the tide.

Thank the Maker the lyrium smugglers aren’t out tonight, or the dusties. All’s quiet in the straight and narrow from the Gallows to Darktown—or if it isn’t, he’s moving too fast to notice or be noticed. Speed is its own kind of stealth, Carver knows that from a lifetime spent in retreat, first across the Bannorn, then out of Ostagar, then on the cliffsides outside Lothering. As his dad used to joke, “Nobody can catch a Hawke in flight” – except it wasn’t a joke, even back then. It was a promise, a spell, a simple kind of religion, and right now all Carver cares about is promises, both new and old, and how to keep them intact.

So he focuses not on fathers or Sulahnni or green eyes going blank but on footfalls and rhythmic breath, and sweat in his eyes, and pain in his ribs. _Just keep running, just keep moving, Carver,_ he tells himself in a voice that sounds like home, _they can’t catch her if you just keep moving._

Carver leaps up the ladder to Darktown, taking the rungs two at a time, and pitches against the trapdoor. He falls face-first into the muck.

Frantic, he looks across the alley to the clinic. The lantern is lit. Thank the Maker.

Then he’s up and running again, and he doesn’t knock on the rotting door so much as hurl himself against it. It swings inward.

The clinic is empty, except for a very startled Anders, hair down, coat off, standing between someone’s knees; his glowing blue hands on broad shoulders, capped by dark hair, a beard— “Garrett?”

He hasn’t seen his brother in nearly a year, not since Bethany’s last nameday. In the clinic’s low light, Garrett looks softer, older, like a frayed blanket.

“Carver?” Garrett squawks. “What are you doing here?”

Carver doubles over, hands on knees, and takes a moment to catch his breath. He looks up at Anders, who hasn’t moved, and back to his brother. “I could ask the same,” he pants, quirking an eyebrow.

“Knee acting up. Couldn’t sleep.” Garrett rubs his thigh and almost manages to sound nonchalant. Anders still hasn’t moved.

Carver rolls his eyes. _Andraste’s ass._ Why couldn’t his brother get his kicks with the dangerous pirate like everybody else? Why did he have to choose the dangerous apostate instead?

He stands back up. “Whatever. Saves me the trip.” He stands at attention, hands behind back, the same way he gives his reports to Cullen. The pose is somehow calming. “It’s Merrill. The Templars are coming. An alienage raid. Tonight.”

Garrett gently pushes Anders back and starts scrabbling to pull on his leather over-robes, while Anders shrugs on his outer coat. “I didn’t hear about this,” he says, eyes hard, voice deep and old, very old.

“Do you hear about everything that goes on in the Gallows?” Anders shoots him a sardonic look that Carver decides to ignore. “Anyway, I just heard about it tonight. My bunkmate’s on the detail.”

Garrett grabs his staff. “How long do we have?”

“Not long enough.” Carver frowns. “You need to go. Now.”

“Wait.” Anders holds up a hand. Disheveled, powerful, he almost looks like Malcolm. “We can’t take on a battalion of Templars just the three of us.”

“Nobody’s taking on _any_ Templars,” Carver growls. “Those are my friends. I won’t lift a weapon against them and neither will you.”

Carver doesn’t ignore how Anders casually spreads his legs, holds out his arms, slips into an attack stance. But Garrett is a little more cautious. “Then what did you come here for?” he asks, barely a question.

“For Merrill. Get her out before they come.” Both men stop moving, regard him curiously. “They can’t take her if she’s not there.”

Garrett looks to Anders, then back to Carver. “Why are you doing this, Carver?” he says slowly. “It’s your job to hunt people like us.”

Carver lets out a frustrated sigh. “Now isn’t the time, brother. Merrill’s in _danger_.” He squints to see out the high windows, trying to see any stars, but of course he can’t see past the chokedamp. He rubs the heels of his palms against his hot eyes. “They’ll be there in half a glass, if I ran fast enough. Please. Just go.”

“I need to know why.” Garrett’s jaw tightens. “This could be a trap.”

“A trap?”

“A trap.”

“Garrett,” Carver makes a small choking noise from the back of his throat, “sometimes I don’t know whether to laugh or to punch you.”

Garrett is about to reply when Anders steps between them. “Why did you come here?”

“Because you’re close to the tunnel, and you’re good at making mages disappear,” Carver says, blood and panic vibrating in his veins. He feels every second, every sand grain, every heartbeat as if it is the last. For all he knows, it could be. “I didn’t realize I’d get my brother in the bargain. What are you two still doing here? Go save her. Go.” Carver meets Garrett’s eyes. “ _Please.”_

But Garrett looks away; looks to Anders, not Carver. Garrett waits for Anders’s nod, not Carver’s. And when Anders says, “Come along, Garrett,” three words Carver has heard so many times before, they ring true and strong, with the power of a dead man’s voice.

Carver watches the two of them dash out past him without another word, and even through all his fear and panic and worry, a small part of Carver wonders if Garrett knows that Anders will be the death of him, maybe the death of them all.


	24. Loose Ribbons

When he returns to the Gallows, the moon is high and the stones chill with condensation. Between the stone towers, Carver can see the constellations of Hafter and his faithful mabari twinkling overhead. The courtyard is mostly empty this late at night, save a few bored, exhausted rooks on midnight shift, who don’t know well enough to inquire after a plainclothes Templar clearly in a rush.

By the time he sneaks back to the barracks, Carver thinks he might have actually gotten away with his midnight run without attracting notice. But then he opens the door to his room.

Moira is there, leaning against his bunk, her arms folded across her chest. Her jaw is tight, her lips thin. Her hair is pulled back in a ribbon.

“Where were you?” Moira screws her nose up. “And what smells like chokedamp?”

Carver shrugs. “I don’t smell anything.”

He tries to sound cool, nonchalant, like his brother, but his voice has always been too harsh and homespun for double speak, and he doesn’t have a beard to lend poise and confidence where none exists. Even he can tell he sounds like he’s starting a bar brawl.

“Of course _you_ don’t. You were rolling around in it,” Moira says smoothly. She saunters over to him and picks at the fur lining of his vest as if she were holding a bag of bones. She sighs dramatically. “Fereldans and their mud.”

“I wasn’t rolling around in anything,” he says firmly, taking her hand in his and holding it still.

She recoils slightly from his touch. “No need to get tetchy,” she says, her eyes searching his. “So? Where were you?”

“Nowhere,” he says.

He leans in for a kiss but she evades him, tugging her hand free from his. Crossing her arms again, she glares at him the same way his mother does sometimes. Carver’s stomach sinks. His gaze falls to her neck, her shoulders, her dress—anywhere but her face.

“Really, Carver?” She pauses. “Are we going to play this game?”

Hearing the challenge in her voice, he raises his eyes. “What game?”

“Did you forget that we were supposed to spend the evening together?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

“Ah.”

“I’m sorry, Moira.”

She stares at him for a few moments. “Well?” she says, her Marcher accent crisp and resentful. “Aren’t you at least going to tell me why?”

Silence crackles between them, and he knows she’s waiting for more, but Carver can’t lie to her, can’t lie to anyone, not like Garrett can. But how can he tell her the truth? _I was out betraying my company for the blood mage I’ve always wanted to fuck_ doesn’t have a particularly romantic ring.

“No,” he says as gently as he can. “Please don’t ask me again.”

Touching one cautious fingertip to his elbow, she peers up at him. “You seeing another woman?”

He laughs, but it sounds like a bark. “You’ve been hanging around Emeric too much,” he says. “His conspiracy theories are rubbing off on you.”

“That’s not a no,” she says.

He takes her cheeks in his palms. “It’s not a yes, either, Moira.”

“You can do as you wish,” she says darkly. “You know I don’t own you.”

He kisses her once, briefly, with a confidence he doesn’t feel. He takes her hand and splays it across his heart. “You own this, love.”

He closes his eyes for a moment and feels her fingertips press into his chest. This is real, he tells himself. This is honest. Moira wants him, needs him. This is what it love is supposed to feel like.

He opens his eyes, but she has already looked away.

“It’s nothing big, I swear. I’d tell you if I could.” It’s the first lie he’s ever told her, and it alarms him how easily it slips from his lips.

She nods uncertainly and he kisses her again. Then she pushes him back with the hand still resting on his chest.

“If you’re going to do that,” she says with a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes, “you’ll need to wash up first. You smell like a Darktown whore.”

She turns away from him and tugs the ribbon in her hair free.


	25. Elvish Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Deep Roads. Written for iheartapostates

Anders runs a thumb along the handle of his mug, the pewter sticky and cool in the humid Hanged Man taproom. He takes a sparing sip, willing the ale to last through night; Maker knows this is the only tankard he’ll be buying. He shouldn’t have even bought this one. Ten coppers! So much coin. _Too_ much. He could have bought a pack of bandages with that, or potion bottles, or maybe a few gossamer elfroot leaves—

A fist thwumping the bar breaks Anders from his reverie. Annoyed, he looks over to see Carver, who props himself up against the wood with his other hand, cheek heavy in his palm. His face is red as a turnip, and he gazes reverently at a very giggly, slightly swaying Merrill.

“You’re a Blighted _geniush,_ Merrill,” he slurs.

She titters and hiccups. “Nuh-uh,” she chirps. Her back is to Anders, but he can still see her hair shoulders bouncing, her hair braids wildly whipping to and fro. “It was the elders! They came up with all the wordings. I just know them.”

“You know _all_ the wordings,” he agrees. Then he beams at her. “How do you shay, _Barkeep! My beer mug ish empty?”_

 _“Hahren,”_ she hiccups again, _“ar’him then!”_

“That’s sho short.”

She nods vigorously. “S’not exact. In trade tongue, it means ‘Elder, I am becoming sober.”

Carver laughs so hard he doubles over and wobbles off the bench. His forehead brushes Merrill’s shoulder. She holds him upright, her long fingers wrapping around his bare biceps.

Anders rolls his eyes and clutches his mug tighter.

Then he feels a clap on his shoulder, and Garrett slides onto the bench next to him. Anders smiles, feeling a warmth in his belly not entirely attributable to the ale.

Garrett jerks his head toward Carver and Merrill. “How long have they been at it?”

“I dunno.” Garrett’s hand still lingers on his shoulder, and Anders hides his gratified smile by taking a long pull from his mug. “Maybe a third, half a glass?”  
Garrett snickers. “Kids.”

“At least they’re trying,” says Anders, shrugging. “You should have seen us in the Tower. Back then we thought flirting was a waste of time.”

“I bet. Is he making any progress?” His eyes drift back to his brother, who’s staring at Merrill with his head cocked like a mabari’s.

“Maybe?” Anders shrugs again. “It’s hard to tell. They’re both sort of idiots.”

Garrett chuckles as Carver’s voice once again drifts through the din: “How do you shay, _Barkeep! Thish ish the beer mug that I want?”_

“Carver,” she giggles. “We don’t have a word for beer mug.”

“Make one up then,” he says and pretends to pull a piece of dirt from her feather pauldrons.

 _“Hahren! Ar’isala an’Carver!”_ she shouts, throwing her arms wide. The two of them erupt into laughter.

“Maker, they’re bad at this,” Garrett says.

“Not like us,” Anders agrees.

Garrett finally drops his hand from Anders’s shoulder.

“What I can’t decide is if she even likes him or not,” Anders says, flexing his hands around his mug to help forget the feel of Garrett’s palm against his back. “She’s nice to him. But she’s nice to everybody.”

“Even you,” Garrett says. They share a quick smile.

Garrett then turns and watches his brother thoughtfully. Carver has his hand on the bar, near Merrill’s elbow. Her chin is in her hand, braids kissing the inside of her wrist.

“How do you shay, _I’m looking at what I want?”_ Anders can barely hear Carver’s voice now above the taproom din.

Garrett’s brother flushes to the tips of his ears, but if Merrill notices, Anders can’t see.

 _“Hahren! Ar elu ar’isala,”_ she chirps. “See? I told you, Carver, Elvish is a very easy language to learn.”

Anders can see Carver mouth form the words, although his voice is too soft to hear. His hand twitches, as if he is thinking about touching Merrill but reconsiders. He decides to pout at the bar counter instead.

“It’s probably a lost cause,” Garrett says. His voice has taken on that peculiar mocking tone that sometimes makes Aveline say _someone doth protest too much_ —whatever that means. “My brother’s too much of a tit.”

Anders chuckles, but as he watches how Merrill’s hand drifts onto Carver’s forearm and linger there until he meets her gaze, he can’t help but feel a wave of sympathy for his fellow Fereldans who no idea how to properly flirt – even if Carver is just a silly young boy with no beard and an atrocious Elvish accent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hahren! Ar’isala an’Carver! = Elder! I want this Carver!_ (Literally: _I am in need of the Carver in this place_ )
> 
>  _Ar elu ar’isala = I am looking at [what] I need_ (Literally: I [look at][what] I am in need of, where “elu” is extrapolated from “eluvian” to mean “look at” and “what” is a dropped article — Elvish drops a lot of random words and tenses)


	26. Noble Conversation

“Are you sure you don’t want to come inside an actual building? Our visiting chambers are actually rather nice.” Carver tries not to chuckle as Garrett’s eyes dart between the slave statues and a group of passing Templars. “You could drown yourself in crushed velvet and sweet wine, like a proper fop.”

“No, I’m good right here by the steps,” Garrett says, waving his hands frantically, like he’s trying to stop a halla stampede. “Sun’s out, Templars a-shining. Such a pleasant day.”

Carver shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

He scratches the back of his head and waits for Garrett to speak.

Garrett clears his throat and shifts his weight.

“So,” Carver says after several awkward minutes have passed, “you’re getting fat.”

Garrett narrows his eyes. “Maybe. Some of us carry it in our bellies instead of between our ears.”

Carver smirks. “Perhaps you and your kept apostate should go out for a walk sometime instead.”

“We’re too busy slitting our wrists and making deals with demons.” His older brother looks away with the same dismissive, pompous air he always had, except this time, his gaze falls on a small cluster of recruits practicing their ranged Silence attacks. Swallowing hard, his head snaps back toward Carver.

“I’m just saying, a little exercise wouldn’t hurt.” Carver flexes his naked bicep casually, the veins bulging along his muscles. He dressed in plainclothes this afternoon to help put his brother at ease, although as he watches Garrett watch his arm, Carver thinks with some delight that he needn’t have bothered. “It’s good for you. _Messere.”_

“Thank you, Mother,” Garrett grumbles. “But I get enough exercise dancing with all the pretty girls at parties. And swimming in my enormous piles of money.”

“Better fat than poor, eh, brother?”

“Or stupid.” Garrett crosses his arms over his chest. “And Anders isn’t my lover.”

Carver snorts. “Yet.”

When Garrett’s face clouds with annoyance, Carver does not attempt to hide his grin.

Ser Maron passes by with four or five cherries in tow, clanking loudly. Carver nods to him, and Maron waves back. When Carver looks back to his brother, Garrett’s chin is set in that defiant, going-to-murder-all-spiders angle he only employs when truly unsettled; Carver gleefully decides to take pity on his older brother.

“So, as delightful as our repartee always is,” he says smugly, “I’m sure you came here for a reason.”

Garrett shuffles his feet, but does not let go of the obvious tension in his shoulders. “I just—Mother wanted me to let you know that—I’ll be leaving the city for a while.”

Carver tips his head back and stares at the sky. “What’s wrong, brother? Finally run out of town?”

“Not exactly. There’s this—thing,” he says. “In Orlais.”

“Sounds delightful,” Carver brings his head back down so that his brother will see his grimace. “Be sure to eats lots of moldy cheese for me.”

“I’m taking Merrill with me,” Garrett says.

Carver stills. The smile on his lips deflates, evaporates.

“Thanks, by the way, for letting me know she was alive,” Carver says through gritted teeth. “I figured—since she didn’t show up here. And I didn’t get a funeral notice. But, you know. Stellar communication skills, Garrett, as always.“

“She’s _not_ alive,” Garrett says, and Carver’s heart stops, but his brother quickly continues, “Well, not according to the Viscount’s desk. Should make tax time much easier for her. Don’t make that face. She’s alright, brother. She’s with me.”

“Like that ever saved anyone,” Carver mutters.

Garrett glares, hands on hips. “Well, we can’t all be Templars.”

“Pity that.”

“I just thought you’d want to know.” Garrett scratches his chin. “In case your _friends_ decide to smash up her house again, she won’t be there.”

“Good.” Carver exhales. “Good.”

Garrett is silent a moment, regarding his brother as if he were a curious insect. “You’re hopeless, Carver. You know that, don’t you?”

The expression on Garrett’s face makes Carver feel eight years old again. “You’re one to talk.”

“Then I guess it runs in the family,” Garrett says quietly.

The two of them stand silently next to each oher for another minute or two.

“Well,” Carver says. “Give my love to Mother. And Gamlen.”

“Will do. Nice chat, as always,” Then without another word, Garrett turns and walks down the steps of the Gallows, taking them two at a time, even though the barge won’t come for another two hours yet.


	27. A Diplomatic Mission

“Ah, Hawke. How _serendipitous._ Please, step into my office.”

Carver follows the Knight-Commander into her close, spartan quarters. Unlike many of the other Templars, Meredith keeps few knick knacks or books about—even her walls are mostly blank, devoid of any family portraits or even pictures of previous Knight-Commanders. It reminds him of Gamlen’s Lowtown shack.

As he takes the single guest chair in the office, she closes the door and sits behind her desk. Her movements are brisk, controlled, efficient. “We must cancel our training session today,” she says. “Something more urgent has arisen. For both of us.”

Carver quirks an eyebrow.

She tosses a small gilded envelope onto the desk. It has his name on it. It has already been opened.

She nods at it. “Go on. It’s yours. You might as well read it.”

He tugs out the small card from the envelope. _“To the noble scion of House Amell_ —A… wyvern hunt? In Orlais?”

“A diplomatic mission,” Meredith corrects him. “For the Order.”

“ _With wine and dancing to follow_ ,” he reads. His shoulders sag. “Knight-Commander. Please. Send me to the Deep Roads instead. I’m sure the Darkspawn could use an ambassador.”

The corners of her lips creep upwards. “This is a serious matter, Hawke,” she says, tapping a finger on the discarded envelope. “This hunt will be a gathering of nations: Orlesians, Fereldans, Marchers. Plenty of opportunity for _conversation,_ as it were. And as Templars, it is our sworn duty to ensure that this conversation remains benign, that foreign agents can not collude against Kirkwall.”

Carver snorts. “The day Orlesians and Fereldans collude on anything is the day I slit my wrists and become a magister.”

“I remind you that Fereldans were not the only ones ever to suffer the iron grip of Orlais,” she says, voice brittle. “But my concerns lie somewhat closer to home. Grand Cleric informs me that revolutionary sentiment has,” she hesitates, “ _intensified_ among our neighbors in Starkhaven.”

“So why not send Sebastian Vael to Orlais?” Carver shrugs. “He’s smart. He’d put a stop to that, I’m sure of it.”

Meredith’s eyes narrow to slits. She folds her hands in front of her. “Are you now? I did not realize he was a personal friend of yours.”

Carver swallows. “He-he’s not. Just that I once did a job for him, me and my brother. Before.”

She peers at him for one long moment and then, satisfied with what she sees, continues. “At any rate, a rebel alliance with Orlais would be powerful indeed. And revolution has a way of spreading like wildfire.”

“Or a Blight,” Carver says, desperate to regain his footing in this conversation.

She nods. Carver relaxes a little.

“There is one other thing,” she says, frowning. “We have had intelligence reports that Qunari agents will be in attendance at the hunt’s reception, which, as you see, is a night-long _bal masqué._ ”

“Lovely.” If there was one thing Carver hated more than stuffed shirts, it was kossith: Big, hulking, smelly giants that talked in riddles, if they talked at all. He remembers the one in Lothering that killed Bethany’s best friend, and how Garrett had to physically restrain him from running it through with his sword. “Well, they’ll be easy enough to spot. Just look for the dancer with horns.”

“Hawke, these are no mere kossith,” she sighs irritably. “Anyone can be Qunari: elves, humans. Have you not seen for yourself how the alienage elves now defect en masse?”

“Oh.” Carver rubs the back of his neck. “I thought the Qunari just used them as slaves or something.”

She shakes her head in unconcealed frustration. “Petrice,” she mutters.

Then she looks back up at him. “Your mission, Carver, will be to identify the Qunari agent, or agents, and keep a close tail on them. Do not engage unless you must. Simply watch.”

“Like a Hawke,” he says.

She does not move for several seconds.

“Your sense of humor is a disgrace to the Order,” she says at last.

“It’s just part of my charm.” Carver shrugs and tries not to hear Garrett’s laughter ringing in his head.

“Indeed,” she agrees in a way that suggests the opposite. “Here is a list of supplies you will need. Your boat leaves two days from now.” She stands up. “You have much to arrange. I will not detain you any longer.”

Carver stands and salutes.

“May the Maker watch over you,” she calls after him as he walks out the door, “Twinkle-Toes.”

Smiling faintly, he walks down the corridor toward the barracks. If he hurries, he might be able to catch the Dockside barge for the day, and slip into Lowtown before the markets close. He has much to buy, it seems; new shoes, a masque, a costume. Meredith’s list is long, her tight, neat script running along both the front and back of the paper.

He almost doesn’t notice the dwarf that bumps into him, even though dwarves are an uncommon sight in the Gallows. This one, who does not apologize for the collision, wears a hood that conceals his features, although his elaborately braided blonde beard dangles against his chest. (Or was it her beard? Bethany had once told him lady dwarves had beards too, but he never knew if his sister had just been yanking his scabbard).

Something about the beard seems familiar, a reminder of poorer days from long ago—but he shakes his head, dispelling the thought. It’s a common enough style, he supposes, and besides, isn’t it racist to think all dwarves look alike?

He peers back to his list. Clearly he has more important things to worry about. Like—Maker’s balls— _doublets._

Carver groans.


	28. Masks I: Introductions

It’s a good day for a hunt, Carver will grant that much. Sunlight streams through the mid-morning clouds, gauzy, gentle, not too bright. The wind is strong but not bitter, perfect for tracking, and everywhere is the crisp scent of pines and wildflowers—a far cry from the sea spray or chokedamp. Even the mountain air feels fresh, restorative. _Invigorating._

Carver is miserable.

Standing as far away as politeness allows, he watches the nobles mill about the Chateau Haine courtyards, comparing amongst themselves their imported hunting mabaris and the size of their embossed pommels. _Orlesians._ Why Meredith thinks any of these trussed-up Saturnalia turkeys have the stones to join the Qunari is beyond him.

From somewhere nearby, one of the nobles whines, “Andraste’s _tears,_ Prosper. When is this going to get started?”

A tall, thin man in gaudy armor and an over-pruned beard puts his hands on his hips and speaks to the crowd as he would a child, promising that yes, the wyvern hunt will start soon, that the victor will earn only the _highest_ honors and bragging rights, of course.

Carver rolls his eyes. That’s all nobles care about anyway: Not gold or property or safety, just who’s better than who, an endless pissing match held at everyone else’s expense. Maker, he’s not sure they even intend to _eat_ the poor beast—assuming one of them gets lucky enough to accidentally stick it, of course.

“Nice broadsword,” says a gruff voice, and Carver turns to see a quartermaster, grey-haired, grizzled, the only one of the lot in serviceable armor. “Is that Marcher make?”

Carver nods. He unsheathes it, holds it up in the sunlight. “Finest smiths out of Kirkwall, although if you ask me, they’ve got nothing on a good Orzammar blade.”

The man grunts in assent. “Them dwarves know their stuff, even the surfacers,” he says, and pats the pommel of his sheathed longsword. “Twenty years I had this one, never so much as a nick. Tried one of them Orlesian toothpicks, and it snapped in half the first time I ran up against a ghastling. _Orlesians._ ” He rolls his eyes, and Carver suddenly feels like hugging him. “I’m Gabriel.”

Carver sheathes his sword. “Carver Hawke.”

“Hawke? That’s a Fereldan name, ain’t it?”

Guarded, Carver nods.

“Spent some time in Amaranthine a few months ago picking up supplies.” Gabriel rubs his chin. “Good place. Strong beer, pretty girls. Pity what happened there, though – first the Blight, then the burnings. Place’s healed right up nice, though.”

Carver relaxes. “Well, you know us Fereldens. Too stubborn to know even when to die.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Gabriel chuckles. “Pardon me for saying it, serrah, but you don’t look like no hunter.”

“Oh, you couldn’t keep me away,” Carver says flatly.

Gabriel smirks. “You’ll have to try harder than that to fool the others, serrah.”

“—we already have an Amell, or a Hawke, as it were,” Carver hears Prosper say.

Oh bloody Maker’s balls. Of course.

Heart sinking, Carver turns to look at the Duke, and sure enough, there is his brother, grinning broadly, enjoying every minute of the sunshine and the fancy cheeses and the attention, as always. He wears the same set of blood-streaked robes he came back from the Deep Roads in, the armor of a much younger and fitter man; and maybe because of that, Carver notices the new grey streaks in his hair, the lines on his face. Time, it seems, has weathered Garrett into the spitting image of their father.

“Brother,“ Carver says, walking toward Garrett, even though he really would rather not, but he does it anyway because if Garrett is here, then that means –  
He sees her, and manages a weak, “Merrill.”

She waves vigorously, even though he’s only a few feet away, and Maker, he can’t help but grin back. He stands next to her, and suddenly feels like he is nineteen again, like they’re off to the Bone Pit or the Wounded Coast and not on a hunt to slaughter a beast nobody intends to eat.

“Perhaps you should join forces,” says Prosper, whose voice sounds much oilier up close than it did farther away, “to avoid any appearance of _collusion_ between parties.” He pointedly looks at Carver as he bows, and Carver wonders if Prosper is perhaps more insightful than his ridiculous armor would suggest.

And it is ridiculous. Very ridiculous. In Hightown, some of the more prosperous nobles keep peacocks as pets, and Prosper’s motley colored garb reminds Carver of nothing so much as one of those preening birds searching for a mate, willing to rut with any vaguely bright-colored lamppost. That green-and-gold breastplate probably wouldn’t even be able to defend against a pigeon strike, much less a wyvern claw.

As Garrett continues blathering with Prosper about wyverns and poisons and drinks, Carver leans over to Merrill, trying to ignore the pretty red-haired elven woman by Garrett’s side, who watches him — or rather, his _armor_ — with intense interest.

“Good to see you in one piece,” he whispers.

“How else would I be?” Merrill replies. “If I were in many pieces, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Uh, I—guess.” He looks down to hide his flush, turning his attention to a strap on his hip that is already well-secured. But he can feel her eyes on him, so he looks back up at her, and she is smiling faintly back at him.

“Still no beard,” she says, touching her jaw with her fingers.

He grins at her crookedly. “Still no shoes, either.”

Garrett clears his throat. Carver drags his gaze away from Merrill and looks at his brother, who seems vaguely annoyed. Prosper is nowhere to be seen.

“Well, Carver,” Garrett says. “If you wanted to tag along, you could have just said so. We could have shared a boat. Saved your Knight-Commander some cash.”

Carver glares at his brother. “I had no idea you’d be here, brother. If I did, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Are they always like this?” says the red-headed elf.

“Oh no,” Merrill chirps. “Usually they’re much nastier.”

Garrett rests a hand on the red-headed elf’s lower back. “Tallis, this is Carver, the Templar traitor I mentioned. Carver, this is Tallis. My, er, date. Well, actually, if we’re being technical about it,” Garrett grins wickedly at Carver, “so is Merrill.”

He smiles, holding his elbows wide. Tallis takes her proffered arm with a smirk, while Merrill hesitates a moment. She touches her hand to Garrett’s forearm and blushes, and something Carver’s gut uncoils violently.

“Two elven women, Garrett?” Carver forces out a chuckle. “People here are going to think you have a fetish.”

Garrett’s grin is cocky and wide and Carver wants to punch it. Hard. “What’s a lord without a proper fetish?”

“A fetish for what?” Merrill whispers to Tallis.

Tallis waves her hand dismissively. “Nevermind, junior. You’ll get it when you’re older.”

She rolls her eyes at Garrett and tosses Carver a long-suffering glance.

Carver instantly decides he hates her.


	29. Masks II: Cold Stares and Winks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the delay in posting -- I was traveling over the holiday. Incoming post spam in 3...2...1...

The hunting grounds are expansive but, for the most part, empty of wildlife, and Carver can’t tell if that’s because the Montfort family long ago killed all the game, or because even deer and rabbits don’t want to be around Orlesians.

As they wander the upper grounds, the only creatures they encounter are small bands of nobles dressed as hunters—if said hunters had rolled themselves in gilt thread and silk and been shot out of a Qunari cannon. Not a single one of them wears a stitch of real armor, although plenty wear feathers and velvet and embroidered sashes; and of course all have donned the white porcelain masks that Carver now realizes delineate the stratosphere of Orlesian society. Even their poor hunting mabaris have been roped into the frippery, their once fine pelts smeared with glitter and bright paint in a mockery of Fereldan kaddis.

Fops are fops everywhere, Carver knows, but something about the nobility here bothers him more than in Hightown. It’s not that he hates Orlais for Ferelden’s sake; the occupation ended well before he was born, and he knows little of it outside of what he heard in Sister Leiliana’s reading rooms. No, if Carver had to put a fine point on it, it’s that Orlesians can’t help but take something that is strong and pure and pervert it; that is, whether it’s a good sword or a Chasind warrior, elven servants or hunting mabaris, they seek out power and conquer it – no, _cling_ to it, as if doing so will make them powerful too. They value their image of a thing, their harlequin mask of it, rather than the true character within.

No wonder Garrett fits in so well here.

Disgusted, Carver instead tries to sneak glances at Merrill as she runs, her staff bouncing along her swaying bottom like a metronome. He can’t help but stare a little: It’s been years since he’s been by her side, traipsing about the grass and the sunlight.

Come to think of it, it’s been years since _he’s_ traipsed anywhere, with or without a companion. He hasn’t taken extended leave since he enlisted. Maybe he should take Moira to the Sundermount for a few days. True, she might be too sensible for elven company, but who could say no to a spot of fresh air, and a languorous fuck beneath the stars?

Eventually Carver notices Tallis staring at him, and he shakes off his suddenly naughty reverie.

“So,” she says with a cocky smirk and a hand on her hip. Her large grey eyes sparkle in such a way that it makes him think she’s always laughing at something—or someone. “You’re Hawke’s brother.”

Carver glares at her. “Yes. Carver. Carver _Hawke_.”

At once Merrill goes still, while Carver hears Garrett snicker softly behind him.

Tallis shrugs. “I usually have to try a lot harder to annoy someone. What’s _your_ issue?”

“It’s nothing that an outsider need worry about,” he says, walking off, leaving the three of them behind.

He hears her sigh. “Well. Cold stares for everyone then.”

“Nevermind Carver,” Garrett chuckles like the pompous pinky-extender he’s become. “He wouldn’t know manners if they hit him upside the head.”

Carver wheels back around. His brother’s arms are crossed and his eyebrow cocked and he looks so much like Father it hurts. “Too bad I couldn’t just buy some, like you.”

Tallis leans over to Merrill. “I travelled with a Templar once,” she says in a fond _sotto voce_. “He was kind of stupid too.”

“Carver’s not stupid,” Merrill says. “He’s just straightforward.”

Tallis points at Carver’s head. “Right. Well, Cairn didn’t wear his helmet either. You forgot your helmet, Junior,” she calls out to him. “You’re leaving your whole head wide open. And it’s a big target.”

Carver drags one gauntlet across his face, tugging a little at flesh of his cheeks. Maker, give him Qunari already, or Orlesian saboteurs; anything but Garrett’s _girlfriends._ “You’re one to talk,” he says, walking back to the party. “Look at your chest plate. It’s more chest than plate.”

“Don’t have to look,” she smirks. “You’re doing enough looking for me.”

“Yeah, Carver. Stop that,” Garrett pipes in. “Keep your cold stare out of her bosom.”

“What—no, I—“ Carver feels himself flush, and hates it, and hates that he doesn’t have a helmet to hide it. “Not all Templars wear helmets,” he says. “Mine would just get in the way of my _giant broadsword._ ”

“Also his beard,” Merrill says. She meets Carver’s eyes and winks, and suddenly, Carver feels all the anger and tension flood from his body. Thank the Maker for Merrill.

Tallis looks between the two of them and quirks an eyebrow. “Like I said, kind of stupid.”


	30. Masks III: At the Hunting Grounds

**I.**

“I am not a slave!” Carver roars, curling his lip.

Merrill laughs, and it sounds like music.

“I am not an elf!” she mock-growls.

Carver mimes swigging from a wine bottle. “I am not an alcoholic!”

Merrill scowls dramatically, but she can’t hold the moue against her insistent giggles. “I am not a sourpuss!”

Tallis leans into Garrett’s shoulder. “What are they doing?”

“Flirting.” He rolls his eyes. “I think.”

“I am not a mustache!”

“I am not a potato!”

“Kids.” Tallis shrugs at Garrett. “I am not a griffon!” she shouts.

Merrill and Carver fall silent.

 **II.**

One of the hunters they pass holds his foil by the blade, as if it were a scepter. Carver tells his brother not to bother correcting him, but Garrett just can’t help himself, of course. He strides up to the man and gives him a quick lesson on proper grip technique—as if the entire world were his drawing room, as if he weren’t a Fereldan apostate in enemy territory, as if he knew anything about holding a damn sword in the first place.

But that’s Garrett for you. Nobility suits him like an old dressing gown, one worn in the elbows and fraying at the hem. His brother was born a Viscount, with the rest of the world merely his subjects.

What bothers Carver most, though, is the look on Merrill’s face as Garrett does it.

 **III.**

Garrett grabs Carver by the elbow. “Well, so what do you think?”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Carver says in a low voice, even though he knows exactly what—or who—his brother is referring to. He just wants to hear Garrett say it—in fact _needs_ it, because for as long as Carver can remember, his brother has never asked his opinion on anything or anyone. Ever.

“You know. _Her_.” He nods at Tallis, who at that moment is attempting to show Merrill how to throw a dagger. Tallis hurls a dagger into a nearby pine; the blade wobbles to and fro from the force of impact. Merrill nods. She lets her arm fly. Her knife bumps, pommel first, into Tallis’s.

Tallis doubles over in laughter, and Carver glares at her. “She’s kind of a pain.”

“So are you,” Garrett says, smirking.

Carver shrugs. “At least I can see why _you_ two get along so well.” He turns to face his brother. “Although I hazard she smells a bit better than your _usual_ fare.”

The smile on Garrett’s lips evaporates. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“No? Perhaps you would if she glowed a little? Maybe I should tell her to paint some cracks on her skin.”

Garrett inspects his fingernails with as much relish as he might a hurlock spittoon. “You’re a right ass, Carver.”

Carver falls silent as a group of hunters passes, grousing loudly about wyverns roosting in the trees. He waits until they’re out of earshot before turning back to his grim-faced brother.

“So how _is_ Anders? Have you two picked out matching staves yet?”

“Carver,” Garrett says in a low, threatening voice. “Not in front of the _fops._ ”

Carver chuckles. “Why not? A pet apostate— quite the prize. I bet they’d all just line up to get your advice on how to accomplish it themselves.”

With a vile, knowing look toward Merrill, Garrett leans in close, “Brother, if you want tips, all you have to do is ask.”

Carver flushes and punches his brother on the arm, taking more satisfaction than he should when Garrett winces and, when he thinks Carver isn’t looking, surreptitiously rubs the spot.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring him, actually,” Carver says at length.

Garrett’s eyes have grown sad, weary. He starts to spin his staff between his fingers.

“I tried,” he says in a ragged voice. “Maker knows he could use the fresh air, and a break from his work. But he didn’t want to leave his—“ Garrett pauses, his gaze lingering on the upright sword on Carver’s breastplate, “—patients. At the clinic.”

Carver pretends not to notice the deep grooves that have appeared around Garrett’s eyes, and how his brother’s fingers have stopped their idle work. “Don’t know why all those people go to him instead of us,” he says. “We have spirit healers in the Gallows that do charity cases. No abominations necessary.”

Garrett casts a dubious look at his brother. “Carver, these people eat bread made of sawdust. How in Thedas would they afford the barge fee?”

Carver’s cheeks flush and prickle. “I’m just saying.”

“Seems you’ve forgotten a lot about what it means to be poor.”

“So have you.” Carver pats his brother’s belly before he can squirm away. “Fatso.”

 **IV.**

“I am not a moth-eaten scarf!”

“I am not a pirate ship!”

“I am not a cummerbund!”

“I am not a field of turnips!”

“Alright. That’s enough, you two.” With a flick of his wrist, Garrett pulses them with a quick telekinetic burst, not powerful enough to hurt, but forceful enough to stun. “It stopped being funny fifty times ago.”

Carver and Merrill look at each other. She grins at him.

“I am not a force mage!” She suddenly cries.

As Carver clutches his aching belly in laughter, he thinks he sees Garrett fight back a chuckle too.

 **V.**

They’re attacked by odd, twisted creatures that spew from the ground like the rats in Gamlen’s shack. They chitter and swarm and are altogether hideous. _Ghastlings,_ Tallis calls them, and Carver thinks he’s never heard a more fitting name.

“Just think,” Tallis says, wiping her dagger on one of the creatures, “if you were a Grey Warden, you could deal with cuddly bugs like these every day.”

Carver shudders. “Maker preserve us.”

Garrett quirks an eyebrow, stares at his brother as if he were a strange plant. “Since when did you get religious, Carver?”

Carver shrugs. “Since when do you get a taste for elven women?”

Garrett makes sure that Carver is looking at him before he responds.

“A man has _needs,_ ” he says with a small, cruel smirk.

 **VI.**

Garrett nudges his brother forward. “Go on.”

“I’m not touching it,” Carver snarls. “You touch it.”

“No way. _You_ touch it.” Garrett prods him in the back of the knee with his staff.

“You’re the mage. Creepy altars, they’re your thing.”

“Well, you’re the Templar. If something comes after us, you’re the only one of us with a suit of armor.”

“I’m not touching it.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and then finally, Carver rolls his eyes. “Maker, you are such a coward sometimes.”

He walks over to the altar and splays his hand on the mossy marble.

The ground shakes, and everywhere is an unearthly roar; what appears to be the tallest, juiciest Arcane Horror they’ve ever seen suddenly materializes in the clearing, along with several of its undead fellows.

“Maker’s balls, Carver,” Garrett sighs. “Why do you always have to touch these things?”

 **VII.**

Tallis coos at the sick puppy, and Carver realizes she can’t be all bad.

Then she starts lilting at it in baby talk, and he realizes maybe she is.

 **VIII.**

“You seem well. You know. Considering.”

Merrill cocks her head like a bird. “Considering what?”

Carver can’t look at her. “The riots.”

“Oh. _That_.” Her voice is low, wistful. “I haven’t been back yet. Varric says it still isn’t safe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why should you be sorry?” Carver can’t bring himself to answer. “I don’t have anything that isn’t already broken, and I don’t have anything to steal—nothing they could easily take, anyway.” She smiles like she’s told a joke, but Carver doesn’t get it. “Haw—your brother has been taking good care of me. I’ve been staying at his estate, you know. He saved me.”

“So I heard,” Carver murmurs. “He and Anders.”

“Oh no, it was mostly him. Anders was only lookout.” she says, her voice lilting and dreamy. “You should have seen it. He burst through the door and everything.”

Carver hides his grimace by crouching down and painstakingly brushing some dirt off his boot. As his gauntlet scrubs the toe, the metal squeals. He winces.

“What I can’t figure out is how he knew they were coming,” she says softly. “We only just made it out of the alienage before the Templars came. He must have such deep connections.”

Carver says nothing, but inside he roils with an anger more violent, more vivid than he has ever felt before toward anyone or anything. But for once, he’s not sure exactly who he’s mad at.

“I like it at your brother’s place,” she continues. “Sandal keeps me company, and your mother—oh, she just tells the best stories about you and—Garrett.” When she says the name, her cheeks turn pink. “Although Leandra seems to believe I need to eat more. So she cooks too many pies and pretends that she did it all by accident.”

Carver chuckles, simultaneously delighted and jealous. “That’s Mother for you.”

“It’s delightful. She’s not like Marethari at all. She’s such a great fun to be around.” Merrill smiles softly at him. “I can see where you get it.”

Instantly Carver blushes.

“Oh—uh, well.” He swallows and scratches at the back of his neck. “You too. Um, no, I mean, you’re fun too. To be with. Er—not _with_ with. Uh.”

“Carver, are you alright? Oh, I’ve missed something dirty again, haven’t I?”

“What? No. No. You haven’t,” he sputters. “Not dirty, I promise.”

“Good.” She gives him a sidelong glance. “Because you probably shouldn’t be saying dirty things to me anymore—not now that you have a girlfriend.”

Her voice is unmistakably cool.

 **IX.**

When his brother sticks his hand into the pile of wyvern shit, it is all Carver can do to restrain himself from kicking him – and his smug new girlfriend – the rest of the way in.

 **X.**

“I am not a Templar!” Garrett suddenly calls out.

“I am not a blood mage!” Tallis answers.

“He thinks he’s so funny,” grumbles Carver.

Merrill lightly rests one hand on his forearm. “Actually, Carver,” she says, her gaze warm but serious, “He sort of is.”


	31. Masks IV: Wild Heart

The sun has already begun to sink behind the tree line by the time the party ascends one final summit; an ascent so high that the air begins to thin, and the trees grow spindly and sparse. Over the sides of the trail, where the mountain falls off, Carver can see thick, cottony clouds lapping at the precipice like waves. If ever a wyvern roosted somewhere, Tallis says with confidence (or maybe just hope), it would be here, at the top of this summit.

Merrill slows down and eventually halts, her eyes unfocused and bouncing along the sky. She is pale, and sweat trickles down her temple. Her breathing is labored, urgent.

Carver stops by her side. “Are you alright?”

“Just a little dizzy, that’s all,” she says. She waves her hand at him, but the motion makes her so unsteady on her feet that she stumbles, kicking up several rocks. Carver grabs her under the elbows before she can fall. She leans heavily into him.

“We can stop, if you need.” He thanks the Maker for metal armor, so he can’t feel how warm she is or how soft; the scratch of her chainmail; the tickling prickle of her feathered pauldrons against his skin. But the weight of her alone, the geometry of her sagging against his body, he can’t help but catalogue this away.

“No, no, I’m alright.” But she does not move away from his awkward embrace. Instead, she slowly, carefully presses her face against his breast plate—first one cheek, then the other.

“Wh-what are you doing?” He doesn’t know if he should let go of her elbows now, or hold them steady; or push against her shoulders to anchor her upright; or wrap his hands around the small of her back and never let her go again. So instead he just stands there, hands and body and breath stilled, skin prickling and alive within his tin cage.

“Your armor is cool,” she says with a relaxed sigh. “It feels good against my face.”

Up the trail Garrett and Tallis have stopped. Garrett starts to make his way back toward them, but Tallis halts him with an unheard question, and he turns back to her, irritated.

“It’s just that I’ve never been so high up before. The air up here is so thin, and the skies are so blue,” Merrill mumbles against his armor. “I’ve never seen eyes so blue before.”

“Skies, you mean,” he says.

She nods her head, braids dragging along the metal. “Skies,” she repeats. She pushes away from him then. Jaw set, she shakes out her arms and peers up the trail. “I’m feeling better now. Thank you.”

He feels cold within his armor, very cold. “Don’t mention it.”

“Everything okay back there?” Garrett calls. He sounds peevish and old.

“Fine, fine,” Merrill shouts. She does not look at Carver. “Just a dizzy spell. I’m alright now.”

“Tallis thinks this might be the place we’re looking for.”

“Good,” Carver yells back. “Good. Shall we?”

Merrill nods.

The two resume walking up the trail. Carver keeps his gaze on her—to be sure she’s steady on her feet, of course. Merrill looks thoughtful, and maybe a little sad.

“Copper for your thoughts?” he says gently as they rejoin with Garrett and Tallis.

“Do you think wyverns are hard to take care of?” she says, apropos of nothing. Her gaze is fixed on the back of Garrett’s head.

He smiles. Only Merrill could be sad about wyvern husbandry.

“You could tame it,” he says. Then, boldly, capriciously, unable to shake off the weight of her against his body, Carver adds, “Tame its wild heart.”

Ahead of them, Garrett snickers so violently he sounds like he’s choking. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I really am.”

Carver wonders if anyone would convict him if he blamed fratricide on the wyvern. He’d have to tear Garrett to tiny pieces to make it convincing, and make sure there was a lot of blood.

“Quiet, _you_ ,” he seethes.

“Where would you take it for walks?” Merrill continues, oblivious. Her cheeks are pinker than usual, but Carver knows it’s just residual flush from her earlier nausea. “What if it got hungry and ate the neighbors?”

“And there goes the moment,” Carver mutters.

“That was _adorable_ ,” says Tallis to Garrett, and Carver wants to wring her ostrich neck. “But, as much as I’d like to see more, we have a wyvern to tame.” She grins viciously at Carver. “Oops. I mean, hunt.”

He makes a mental note not to guard her in the coming fight.

She takes Garrett aside and together they lay out all the various bits and bobbles of bait they’ve collected. Garrett sprays Tallis with blood, and suddenly, she’s squealing like a stuck turkey and flapping her arms.

“Do nugs flap their arms like that?”

“I don’t believe nugs even have arms,” she says. “Just big ears, but I don’t think they bend quite like that.”

He watches Tallis leap and hop, and he shrugs. “Maybe she’s pretending to be a wyvern.”

“I hope she’s a tame one then,” Merrill says sagely. “I wouldn’t want her trying to eat us.”


	32. Masks V: The Wyvern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so sorry I've been so bad about uploading my updates here! Things got kind of crazy for a bit, lots of travel and whatnot, and I've fallen so behind.
> 
> Anyway, here's a few chapters now. I'll upload the rest later this weekend.

Carver remembers the mature dragon they fought so many years ago: A curling, regal creature, her opalescent scales glinting in the twilight; even at her advanced age, she was all curves and vicious grace. The wyvern is not like her. The wyvern is nasty, short, brutish. Its leathery skin pulls taut over ribs and muscle; garish yellow markings stripe its skin and wings. When it lets out a wailing roar, it reveals sharp jagged teeth that don’t look as if they should fit together. Indeed, the thing almost looks as if it’s wearing another creature’s face, cobbling together body parts from those more beautiful or powerful.

“We’re ready for you, ugly,” Carver murmurs, because in fact he _isn’t_ —ghastlings and arcane horrors are one thing, but he hasn’t swung his sword at a large, animate creature in nearly three years. The Gallows practice dummies can take a lot of punishment, but they can’t climb down off their poles and strategize or feint or retaliate.

The wyvern paws the soil and charges directly at Carver; and in the split-second before contact, Carver curses himself for leaving his sunshield in the barracks. There is a heavy collision of flesh and bone, and then he flies back, hurtling through the air—this isn’t what the old witch meant by flying, he thinks—and Carver slams heavily, painfully against the rocky ground.

He barely dodges a claw to his face and rolls to his feet.

“Kill it, don’t play with it,” Garrett shouts as he sets up a gravity well.

Carver grimaces and slashes at the wyvern—but the creature shrugs off his blows, its skin as hard as plate. Yet that doesn’t matter; as he learned from his father, sometimes a sword matters less than the threat of it—and Garrett uses the distraction to hurl a Fist of the Maker that momentarily flattens the wyvern.

Snarling, the creature struggles to its feet. With a lash of its wicked tongue, it spits poison at Carver. A bit catches on his boot and begins to singe the steel.

“Bad wyvern,” Merrill shouts, and lobs a Stonefist at its head.

Carver circles the wyvern, preventing its charge, and it gives his companions opportunity to attack and backstab and whittle the creature away, ground gained by inches. As he swings and strikes, it all begins to feel like some merry dance, a Remigold gamboled on the side of a mountain: his brother flourishing his arms as he calls down fireballs; Tallis sliding across and behind; now Merrill ghosting across the battlefield, summoning roots to her call, and lightning, and rock. He remembers this, or at least his body does; the thrill of combat, the steps and paces—not guard duty or practice drills, but force and power, blood and sweat and kinetics. Part of him never wants it to end.

But then the creature wails again, frustrated, alone, and Carver begins to feel a little like the bully back in Lothering who used to steal his sister’s peaches.

Merrill shouts in Elvish, and an errant fireball misses him narrowly; he yelps as his metal suit burns exposed skin. The wyvern spits poison, roars. A claw connects. He staggers. There is goo on his shoes, and his eyes sting. Now the stench of blood, not his own. Smoke, and flashing daggers. Collision. Ragged breath. Squealing metal. Sourness. Sweat. Rotting meat. Tooth and claw. And through it all—Garrett and Merrill; through it all he can see them dance and sway; in the corners of Carver’s vision, they whirl together, like the most familiar of dancing partners, staves pounding out the same staccato beat.

Carver sees an opening. He charges the wyvern, hurling himself beneath it and dragging his sword along its belly. Its skin ruptures open. The creature wails, pitches forward. Carver rolls out from under it just as it collapses, and he sees Garrett twirl his staff dramatically, lobbing one last fireball to its head, and then—it is over.

He gasps for air, wipes wyvern blood off his face. “Ugh. What a bloody waste.”

“Literally,” Merrill moans, swabbing at her cheeks with her scarf. She watches as Tallis and Garrett hug once, briefly, and scowls.

Garrett limps over to his brother. “Good job.”

Carver nods. “You too. You okay?”

Garrett tests his foot and shrugs. “I’ll live.” He bends over, hands on knees. “I think,” he grins broadly, still slightly out of breath, “I think I missed this.”

Carver can’t help but grin back. “What part? Lobbing fireballs at my head, or cheating death by the skin of our teeth?”

Garrett chuckles. “Both.”

“Me too,” Carver says, and slings an arm under his brother’s shoulder.

“That’s the nicest I’ve seen them all day,” says Tallis.

“You should see them when they’re drunk,” Merrill says.


	33. Masks VI: Of Peacocks and Big Hats

**I.**

Baron Arlange approaches them surrounded by a school of masked chevaliers, the whole lot of them covered head to toe with brightly-colored livery and highly-polished armor that can only generously be described as functional. They wear silver, octopus-shaped helmets that obscure their entire faces.

Big weapons and perfunctory dress armor—it’s altogether pompous, and absurd, and very Orlesian, and as Arlange whines about stolen kills, Carver only wishes they’d lured the wyvern a few minutes later, just to see it tear through Arlange and his band of merry men.

“That wyvern was mine to kill, not yours! Mine, mine, mine!” The baron stamps his foot, pounds his fists against the air.

“Maker, what a tantrum,” Carver mutters. “Next he’ll try holding his breath until he passes out.”

“Your brother makes so many friends wherever we go,” Merrill says with an adoring smile.

 **II.**

“Leave him. He can’t be more than he is, that’s all,” Tallis says, and Carver wonders why that sounds so familiar – why the cadence of it, more than the words, makes his stomach sink.

“He is not a peacock!” Merrill whispers forcefully behind her hand, and Carver stifles a snort.

 **III.**

They’re halfway down the mountain when Tallis turns to his brother and says, in a tone too smooth to be truly casual, “Are you married?”

Garrett smirks. He takes a large step around a small stone in the trail, bringing him wide from Tallis’s side. “Is that a proposal?” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Shrugging, Tallis tosses her hair behind her shoulders. “Just wondering if there’s a little woman behind the throne.”

Carver snorts.

“Let’s keep moving,” Garrett says, and picks up the pace.

“Yes, let’s,” Merrill says, narrow eyes on Carver, her mouth a thin line.

Carver’s laughter dies on his lips, and as he watches her step ahead of him, he has the sudden image of Garrett and Merrill playing peekaboo behind an ornate throne carved with the Amell family crest.

 **IV.**

“We’re lost.” Carver rolls his eyes.

“We’re not lost.” Garrett puts his hands on his hips. ”I know exactly where we are.”

“Ooo, we’re lost!” Merrill claps her hands with delight. “I know how to be lost. I get lost all the time. Usually I just change where I’m going.”

“Carver’s right,” Tallis says. “We’ve passed that same stand of trees twice now.”

Garrett glares at her. “Well if you’re so good at tracking, why don’t _you_ lead?”

She shrugs. “Never said I was good at tracking. Just at recognizing ridiculous things.” She points at the thicket of pines, underneath which is a skeleton twisted and crushed by a very old, very heavy cheese wheel.

“Guess he was lactose intolerant,” Garrett says.

Not even Merrill laughs.

 **V.**

The Big Hat Ghastling rises into the air, his hands weaving together some strange and no doubt troublesome bit of hedge magic.

Carver places two fingers against his temple and with a quick prayer, cleanses the battlefield. The creature falls to the ground, gasping, sputtering, terrified.

After the battle, Merrill scurries to Garrett’s side and does not leave it for some time, although Carver catches her looking at him once—a brittle look, lonely and unsettled.

 **VI.**

“Here,” Carver says, trying to keep his voice even and low, so his brother doesn’t hear. “I found this, I thought you might want it.”

Merrill gingerly takes the feather and twirls it between her fingers. “A Samir feather?”

Carver flushes. “Oh. Is that what that is? Nevermind. I—I thought it was a hawk feather. Sorry.”

Without meeting her eyes, he tries to take it back, but she yanks her arm out of reach. She cocks her head at him. “Carver, why would I want a hawk feather?”

Carver feels his face grow even hotter. He looks at the ground, the trees, the feather in her hand—anywhere that isn’t _her_. “Doesn’t the goddess of the hunt, Ondool, Andral—“

“Andruil,” she says.

“Right, that’s the one,” he smiles nervously. “Doesn’t she like hawks?”

Merrill gasps. “You remembered.”

Carver nods, meeting her gaze at last. She smiles at him, but it’s smaller and more secretive than her usual—like he is a book and she is his reader.

“Yes, she does.” Merrill puts a hand on his arm, on the exposed padding under his rerebrace. She holds it there for a moment, warm and strong. “And so do I.”

 **VII.**

The Chateau is in sight—finally.

“Garrett,” Carver says hesitantly.

“Yes, brother?”

Carver fumbles with his gauntlet for a moment. How best to approach this? After all, Garrett can’t help but make an ass out of himself. It’s in his nature. Garrett builds his hearth in the center of attention – no matter that in Orlais, all his _nouveau riche_ influence can’t protect him from the Chantry’s gaze.

“Try not to cause too much trouble, will you?” he says. He smiles with too much teeth. “I have to uphold the tenets of the Order now.”

Garrett and Tallis share a glance. “Well,” he says, sneering. “You know where you can _uphold_ them.”

Carver sighs. Of course. He should have known Garrett would make it all about him, and in all the wrong ways. Well, at least he _tried._

“Right. You and I can keep it civil until you’re done,” Carver narrows his eyes, “whatever it is you think you’re doing.”


	34. Masks VII: The Plan

“You’re here to steal a _jewel_?” Carver throws his hands in the air.

Garrett puts a finger to his lips. “Not so loud, Tinman.”

Carver whirls on his brother and Merrill, neither of whom appear nearly concerned enough about the absurdity of the plans Garrett has just divulged. “What are you now, the Black Fox? And you, his Servana?”

Garrett shrugs.

“It really is a nice jewel, or so I hear, and Tallis was really very nice about asking for our help,” Merrill says, picking a curl of cheese up off a passing hors d’oeuvre plate. “Thank you,” she says to the elf holding the tray, who frowns snobbishly at her and scurries away.

Carver narrows his eyes. “This isn’t one of those blood magic jewels, is it? Are you going to force my hand on this?”

“It’s not a blood magic jewel,” Garrett rolls his eyes and stuffs some ham into his mouth, “at least, I think not. It’s just big, and hidden in a secret vault, that’s all, I swear. Ugh. This stuff really does taste of despair.”

“You really are an idiot, Garrett,” Carver whispers. “It’s like you _want_ to be locked up for life.”

Garrett waves his empty hand at his brother, although he could just be shaking out crumbs from his sleeve. “Even if they catch us, they won’t do anything with me,” he says. “A mageling noble? I’m too exotic to lock away.”

Carver cross his arms “Then what about her?” Startled, Merrill pauses mid-bite through a blackberry tart, her mouth hanging wide. “What do you think they do to blood mages in Orlais? Or elves? Or both?”

Merrill closes her mouth and regards the tart as if it were a battalion of Templars.

“We’ll be _fine_ ,” Garrett says. “I won’t let anything happen to anyone.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Carver says in a low, dangerous voice. As a kindness, he decides against bringing up the last time he heard his brother say those words, but he remembers it, painful and vivid, standing on the cliff-faces above Lothering, the worst day of his life.

“Your confidence is overwhelming, but it will be fine. I promise.”

“No, _Tallis_ says it will be fine, and I don’t trust her.”

“Who _do_ you ever trust, Carver?” Garrett sighs dramatically. “It must be a terrible burden to be the only competent person in all the Free Marches.”

Carver is about to respond when Tallis saunters up to them. She wears an embroidered blue and mauve gown whose colors match Garrett’s, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for her.

“I had a quick look around. There’s one door into the castle that isn’t under heavy guard,” she says.

“Here we go again,” Carver mutters, and crosses his arms across his plate.

“I can’t get it open, and believe me, I tried. Bent a nice set of lockpicks in that stupid door.” Carver rolls his eyes. Next she’ll pull a black mask out of her arse and dash into the shadowy bushes. “One of the duke’s guardsmen must have a key. They wouldn’t just lock themselves out of the castle, I hope.”

“Why else would the party be in the garden?” Garrett says with a flirtatious smile. “He probably has someone breaking a window right now.”

Carver shakes his head. _Maker._ He can’t tell if Garrett’s joking because he thinks he’s hysterical, or if his brother honestly does not understand how a cocktail hour works. As it is, Garrett sounds like a backwater bumpkin, as if he’s never been to a noble party in his entire life.

“I—could make that work, actually,” Tallis murmurs. “But in the meantime, let’s find someone with a key.”

Carver looks at Tallis, then his brother, then back at Tallis. Of all the harebrained schemes Garrett has ever devised, this is among the most _ridiculous._ There’s a simple solution to this, an obvious solution, but as usual Garrett finds the strangest ways to act out of his station—forever behaving as if he were the Lowtown smuggler, and not the prodigal scion of House Amell returned.

If it were just Garrett and Tallis, Carver might perhaps let them act as foolish as they desire—but they’re putting Merrill at risk, too; and after everything he has done to protect her from the Gallows, he is _not_ letting Garrett’s inability to cope with doublets and small talk put her at risk.

If his brother must steal a jewel, fine, but there’s more than one way to skin a maleficar.

“Let’s split up,” Carver says. “We don’t want the duke to think we’re laying siege to his party.”

Garrett nods, and thankfully does not object. “Tallis and I will look for the key. In the meantime, scout out the castle for another way in.”

Arm in arm, Garrett and Tallis walk off toward the bored, inebriated nobles meandering the garden.

Carver beckons to Merrill. “Come on, I have an idea,” he says, walking back to the guest wing. “Garrett has his ways into a castle, I have mine.”

“Ooh!” She leans against his arm conspiratorially. “Is your way the roof? Because I like roofs. Although I don’t particularly care for heights.”

He grins at her and bops her shoulder back. “My way is the front door.”

She cocks her head, confused. “But I thought it was locked.”

“Sure, if you’re deliberately being difficult.” Carver grins. “But this is a _bal masque._ If we want entrance to Montfort’s inner sanctum, we’ll just have to _dance_ our way in.”


	35. Masks VIII: The Masks We Choose

“Carver.” His eyes flicker anxiously from the mirror on his dressing table to the door from which Merrill’s muffled voice, and now a slight pounding, emanate. “I’m nervous and my feathers are molting.”

And without so much as a _I’m coming in_ or _are you decently dressed,_ Carver sees the door in the mirror swing open. He turns to see the elaborately swathed and embroidered mage swish into his quarters, the fabric of her silvery, shimmery gown trailing behind her slightly, like mist to a Fade-spirit. Blood-dark roses curl along a pale blue panel across her strapless bodice, mirrored by a similar panel running down the center of her gown. Tied around her waist is a golden cord that looks, on further inspection, to match the tasseled rope that holds back the Chateau Haine window curtains.

With gloved hands, she holds a feathered mask to her cheeks; the porcelain stark and plain against the vallaslin on her exposed chin. Adorning the eyeholes are blue and scarlet gems, catching and refracting the candlelight like one of Sandal’s enchanted runes. Two long, spiraling horns stick out from a confusion of puffy blue and scarlet feathers, hiding all but the very tips of her ears, and the whole thing looks very complicated, and very heavy, and very, very Orlesian.

The hands holding the mask to her face slowly slip, and eventually, her wide, green eyes peek out from behind the feathers.

“You look—fancy,” she says weakly, out of breath perhaps from the effort of holding such an elaborate headpiece aloft. “Like a Templar from one of Varric’s stories.”

Carver looks down at himself with a quick, nervous appraisal: Shimmering black breeches, fine leather dancing boots; a silver doublet whose sleeve slashes reveal a flirtation of blue silk that the tailor had sworn would “highlight” his eyes, whatever that means. It was a long way from the patched hand-me-down jerkins he used to don for Lothering’s monthly dances, that’s for sure. “But I _am_ a Templar,” he says.

“I mean one of the handsome ones,” she replies, averting her eyes.

His stomach flip-flops, but not in the way it had when she’d first entered the room. He rolls his eyes. “ _Thanks_ , Merrill.”

“I think you might be wearing your mask wrong, though,” she says softly, stare still fixated on the geometry of the stitching on the room’s imported Rivaini carpet.

He touches sweaty fingertips to the cool metal of his mask, which is little more than a half-plate of burnished silverite. It does, however, buck Orlesian convention and stretch up and down his face, rather than along his eyes. Held in place with leather straps under his bangs and jaw, the mask conceals one half of his face entirely, leaving the other half entirely at leisure to sweat and to prickle, and to blush at beautiful girl’s scrutiny.

“The vendor said it’s supposed to go this way,” Carver murmurs. “It’s the Nevarran style.”

“Maybe it’s _supposed_ to look like a helmet,” she says, and it’s as good as anything else to break the awkward silence between them, “Nevarrans do a lot of killing dragons, after all.”

Her not-compliment warms his belly in a treacherous way, and Carver admits that perhaps the gratuitous agony expended in the mask’s purchase was well spent after all. A few weeks ago, he’d worked himself into such a state, frowning over the porcelain and feathers and beading until the Hightown vendor had started to frown himself and began packing up his wares in the deepening twilight, even as Carver still looked on. So instead Carver purchased his mask from a Lowtown trinketsmonger, a softly pregnant woman with dirty cheeks and a curly haired moppet working her change till. Not out of pity—no; Carver didn’t believe in sympathy for the mud-caked and starving, because sympathy didn’t fill bellies or, for that matter, conceal one’s favorite apostates from prying eyes. No; it was simply that the mask, dented and dull as it was, had caught his eye like a trick of the light, as if it had been cast for him alone—an impression that did not fade when he’d held the metal to his face and felt it cradle his cheek in a comfortable, easy embrace.

Adding to his pride is the fact that Carver had bought this mask with his own pay—not an inherited estate, nor blood money looted from Carta thugs, or a stack of coppers his father had pressed into a young boy’s uncalloused palm. His money, and his alone. And that meant something important, even if the purchase itself were ridiculous, and Carver intended to get that much at least _right._

“And me, how do I look?” She holds her mask back up to her face and does a little turn. Her skirts swirl around her like fog.

“You look—“ _Beautiful. Captivating. More alluring than any Desire Demon that has ever tempted me in the Fade._ “—a little ridiculous, actually.” With a soft smile, he takes her horns in both hands and adjusts them until they sit upright along her head. “Like a seductive halla.”

Merrill chuckles. “It’s the mask, isn’t it? Garrett helped me pick it out. We went shopping in Hightown together and everything.”

Carver’s smile fades a little. Trust Garrett to make everything all about himself, even when he wasn’t in the same room, or even in the same castle yet.

“My brother has good taste in halla,” he says, because Merrill really does look lovelier than Garrett, or anyone, deserves.

“And corsets,” she chirps. “Look at how high my breasts go. They’re almost up to my chin. Carver, look. Isabela would be jealous. Look!”

Carver swallows, feeling his Adam’s apple bob painfully.

“Let’s just get to the dance floor, Merrill,” he says. “We can find you a way into the vault from there.”

He allows himself one—and only one—look before he proffers his arm. She takes it, her hand hot and small against the crook of his elbow, and for the entire walk to the ballroom he tries as hard as he can to remember the exact way Moira looks and smells.


	36. Masks IX: The Receiving Line

The Chateau Haine ballroom is a huge, sparkling expanse of swooping buttresses, velvet tapestries, and bobbing faerie lights, under which wheel hundreds of masked dancers and stern-faced elven attendants. Everywhere nobles in feathers and chiffon and ironic skins chitter like darkspawn, spilling their drinks on the floor and on each other. In the center is a massive dance floor, where partygoers stumble through the most fashionable dances out of Val Chevin. It’s still early in the evening yet, so the dancers still betray some basic level of coordination, but if Carver knows anything about nobles, and Orlesians, the skill level won’t be maintained much longer.

The scene is a far throw from Lothering’s town dances—crowded, sweaty affairs, from which Carver would inevitably return home with new elbow-shaped bruises and lemonade spilled down his jerkin. Carver never much liked those gatherings, but his mother always forced him to go—“No place better to find husbands and wives,” she’d say with a loving wink, “and even dashing apostates.”

As they enter the ballroom, Merrill’s fingernails dig painfully into Carver’s arm. “There’s so many people here,” she murmurs. Her head follows a passing elven servant, but Carver can’t read her expression under her now-secured mask. “I feel like a halla in stampede.”

Carver lays his hand on top of hers, smiling at the way his palm shields her delicate fingers. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, the feathers of her mask tickling his bare cheek, “I’ve got you.”

The corner of her mouth briefly quirks upward, but as her gaze lingers on the attendants, whatever semblance of a smile her features toyed with soon fades. “How does this help us find Garrett again?”

“I got you into the castle now, didn’t I?” He shifts his elbow, bringing her hot, small hand closer to his body. He steers her toward the receiving line, at the end of which await Duke Montfort and a glittering tart swathed in wyvern skins, who Carver can only assume is Prosper’s wife. “Put in an appearance, wait until it’s safe, and then you can dash off to go find Garrett and his elven _jewels,_ ” he says, making a face. “And now that you’ve been seen _here_ , if anyone catches you _there_ , you’ll have an easier time convincing them you’ve just gotten lost.”

“I usually don’t have to pretend that,” she says. “Although I do hope nobody tries to give me a mop this time—wait, won’t you be coming with me?”

He shakes his head. “No. I need to stay here. You’re not the only one here with a secret mission, you know,” he says, his chest puffing out a little.

She gasps, her other hand coming to her lips. Behind her mask, her eyes glitter like gems. “Is there an evil abomination Meredith sent you to catch? Or a group of apostates? Creators, you’re not after _us_ , are you?”

“No, no.” He gives her hand a little squeeze. “My mission involves less blood magic and more boring conversation.”

The receiving line inches forward, and suddenly, Carver and Merrill are in front of the Montforts. The duke is dressed in the same absurd motley livery he wore on the hunt, and idly Carver wonders if he even takes off his helmet to sleep, or bathe.

“Ah, Serrah Hawke,” Prosper says, opening his arms wide. “Our conquering champion of the hunt!”

“May I present my companion,” Carver smiles at her, “Lady Merrill of Sundermount.”

Prosper smiles as if he is indulging a child pretending to be a mabari. “Of course,” he simpers, tapping his chin. “How could I forget such enchanting markings?” He spares the barest of nods in Merrill’s direction, but does not bow as he has to the other ladies before them in the queue. “It’s as if you came with your own mask prepared. Although the one you wear now is quite lovely too. Did you cast it yourself?”

Merrill is about to say something, but Carver squeezes her hand hard enough that she sucks in a deep breath instead.

Next to her husband, Prosper’s wife sweeps her hand upward, revealing a wyvern wing sewn under her sleeve, and extends her hand to Carver. “We’re so delighted you could come.” Carver kisses the duchess’s hand. Her skin tastes like wyvern blood. “And your brother? Will he be along shortly?”

Carver shrugs. “Perhaps he discovered another guest wearing his boots, and had to go order new ones made at once.”

The duchess recoils. “The scandal,” she says sincerely.

Carver bows once more. He steers Merrill away from the Prospers, but the crowd is too thick to move quickly, so he hears the duchess’s piercing voice as she says to her husband, “Another Kirkwall noble enlisting his servant as a dancing partner. It must be the newest Marcher fashion.”

“Or,” says Prosper, “perhaps the grey devils have stolen all their women.”

The two of them titter together, like buzzards over a kill, and then their voices are lost in the crowd.

Once they’re some distance away from the queue, Merrill yanks away her hand.

“ _’Came with my own mask’_ ,” she sputters. “Your servant!”

“Flouncy cheese-munching pinky-extenders,” Carver agrees. He puts a hand on her shoulder but she shrugs him off.

“Have you seen how the elves have looked at me here? At my _markings_? Like I’m some wicked curio from the Black Emporium.” Merrill shakes her head. “I thought my people back home suffered. But here, they’ve forgotten everything.”

“Or they were forced not to remember. There’s a difference,” Carver says. He watches her for a long moment, head turned, her fingers clenching and worrying the delicate fabric of her gown. Then he takes her hand. “Come. Dance with me.”

“What?”

He nods his head toward the dance floor, where a bevy of masked dancers clap in unison. “Dance with me,” he repeats. “They can’t give you mops if you’re too busy dancing.”

She gives him a sour look he can make out even behind her ridiculous halla mask. “Elves don’t _dance._ ”

“But Templars do.” He bows low in front of her, and takes her gloved hand to his lips, his parted lips lingering a moment over her satin-covered knuckles. “It’s basic training for all new recruits.”

“I can’t, Carver, I really can’t,” she says, her breath caught in her throat. “I wouldn’t know any of the steps or the handwaving or when to twirl—“

“Then just follow my lead.” Carver winks at her, and what little of her cheeks and ears he can see turn a violent, yet very satisfying, shade of scarlet.

“I missed something dirty again,” she mumbles. “I just know it.”

“Maybe just a little,” he says, grinning and tugging her toward the dance floor.


	37. Masks X: The Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to "Sabrina"! It's one of my favorite movies, and I just love both versions.

The crowd is so dense that by the time they reach the dance floor, the musicians have already changed songs twice, and Merrill has nearly wriggled her hand free. But Carver eventually forces a path and he pulls her onto a clear spot—just as the violins begin a languorous waltz, the latest in scandalously fashionable dances.

Carver sets her arms and elbows into a box frame, and takes her by the hand and waist. Her nails dig into his shoulder, and her hot fist clings to his, like a drowning man to driftwood.

“This one is easy,” he says gently, trying not to enjoy the force with which she grips him, or to think of how she might otherwise apply it. From this close, he can smell the soap she used this morning, grassy and sweet, and her sweat, and her skin. “Just one-two-three, and when I go forward you go backward, and we go side-to-side together. Don’t let your elbows drop.”

Under her mask, Merrill is as red as an aravel sail, and she is transfixed by her feet stuttering along the floor. She steps on Carver’s foot, and glares at her traitorous boots. “Sorry, sorry. Ooh, this is maddening. It’s like learning to walk again, except in all the wrong directions.”

“You’re getting it, see?” He squeezes her hand. “Look at me.”

“Oh, I’d really rather not. My feet won’t know which way to go—“

“Look at me.”

Something in his voice catches her attention, and slowly, slowly, she drags her gaze up to his. Behind her bejeweled mask, he can see her eyes, the color of forests, of life itself.

“It’s in the frame, not the feet,” he whispers, suddenly feeling very small and lost. She rolls her eyes and steps on Carver’s foot again, and he comes back to himself. “I’m going to try turning you, alright?”

“What? Here? N-No—“ But he has already raised his arm, and is guiding her through the step. She looks almost graceful as she walks through the turn, except—she keeps on walking.

He grabs her by her cord belt, the one that looks suspiciously familiar, and tugs her back toward him. “You have to come back to me when I let you go.” he says.

She frowns. “How was I supposed to know?”

“Listen to my hands,” he says, taking hers again.

“What does that even mean?” she grumbles.

He chuckles softly. With the hand on the small of her back, he thumbs the silken cord looped around her waist. “Is this the curtain tie? From our rooms?”

“Yes,” she said. “I thought it looked dashing.”

“Of course,” he says with a fond chuckle. In their joined hands, his thumb lightly brushes the outside of her forefinger. “Do elves really not dance?”

Merrill glowers at him. “Do humans really talk this much while dancing?”

“Only when we’re trying to distract our first-time dancers.”

She huffs, but her shoulders relax a little.

“We have ritual _performances,_ ” she says. “Serious re-enactments of the First Creation, of the Parting of the Brothers, of the Sealing of the Gods. But this—“ she tugs one hand free and gestures between them, and Carver takes the opportunity to covertly shake feeling back into his hand, “this is _vulgar_ ,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“Vulgar?” Carver reclaims her hand in his, and with the other splayed across her back, tugs her a little closer. “How? Because of how close we are?”

She shakes her head. “The speed. It’s all so fast, and ends too soon. I suppose it reminds us of how the shemlen shortened our lives.”  
Carver laughs uncomfortably.

“Dancing doesn’t shorten life. Well, it could, but only if you’re very bad at it.” Merrill makes a face, and her eyes start to drift back down to her feet, so Carver changes direction and sweeps her across the floor. Her gaze snaps back to his in alarm. “Don’t worry,” he smirks, “I’ve got you. Remember—frame, not feet.”  
Carver ignores her pout, and blows away a feather from her mask that tickles his nose.

“Bethany would have loved this,” he says softly. A nearby dancer giggles, but all he can hear is his sister—so much so that he almost turns to make sure it’s not her. “She loved fancy things, and parties, and people in funny clothes. Once, when we were all little, she put on her own Orlesian ball in the kitchen. She made me dance the Remigold with the dog.”

For the first time since he’d led her to the dance floor, Merrill smiles—a pale, weak thing, but a smile nonetheless. “That sounds difficult. And slobbery.”

“Especially since Dog led.” He chuckles at the memory. “But at least I got to dance. Garrett had to be the sour old Dowager. She dressed him up in Mother’s funeral gown and powdered his nose with an entire bag of flour.”

Finally Merrill giggles, and Carver feels a flush of triumph. He seizes the opportunity and raises his hand, leading her through a quick turn. She barely even notices until her hands are back in his.

“She sounds so funny,” Merrill says. “I wish I’d gotten the chance to meet her.”

“Me too.”

He doesn’t know what else to add without betraying too much, so he lets Merrill focus on matching the rhythm and sway of their bodies. His gaze drifts to the couples leaning against each other, to the stoic attendants, to the decorations in the hall. He watches the intricate constellation of enchanted faerie lights bobbing above the dance floor, as if Prosper himself had plucked the stars from the sky and strung them in his ballroom.

Carver leans his bare cheek against Merrill’s feather-infested hair and tries to think of Moira: her face, her cocky grin; the weight and taste of her; the way she confidently twirled and spun through their own dance lessons back in the Gallows. But only dusty days in the alienage will come, and long afternoons spent cloud-gazing and nearly brushing bare toes, and elvish lessons over putrid beer at the Hanged Man.

 _“Vir samahl la numin,”_ she sings, her voice low and barely discernible above the music, “ _vir lath sa’vunin._ ”

Her voice is not beautiful or rich in timbre, but he swallows hard anyway. “What’s that?”

“This is an elvish song,” she says, leaning her cheek against his. Her hand has relaxed in his hold, and her fingers lay flat against his shoulder. “They sped it up, of course, and took out all the words. And added those strange little hand-cymbals. But this is _‘In Uthenera’._ ” She sighs. “Another thing the shems here took from us, I suppose.”

“Do you remember you tried to teach me elvish?” he murmurs. One of her hair braids sticks a little against his lips.

“Mmm,” she hums against his neck.

“It’s been so long since I tried using any of it.” She smells of the Sundermount, and sunshine, and dozens of mostly-forgotten memories. “How do you say, “my sister had grey eyes”?”

 _“Emma lethallen dorf’inan,_ ” she says, breath hot against the rim of his ear.

“And how do you say, “my brother has a pretty girl”?”

 _“Emma lethallin asha’nehnni._ ”

“And how do you say, “I wish I were my brother”?”

Merrill tenses in his arms, and does not answer for several moments. “I don’t remember,” she says at last, her voice low and dark.

The music swells into one last crescendo. “Ready for a dip?” he chirps, his voice suddenly too loud, and dips her in his arms before she can protest. She clings to his neck, his hands, and her eyes bore into him, he knows, but he cannot meet her bright and knowing gaze.


	38. Masks XI: Casual Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who haven’t read "The Stolen Throne", Meghren was the last Orlesian ruler of Ferelden during the Occupation; when Maric’s forces took control of Denerim, they severed his head and stuck it on a pike outside the gates of Fort Drakon—just as Meghren had done to Maric’s mother, the Rebel Queen Moira.

“And then _I_ said, ‘You _told_ me to arrive in _style_! Next time feed _your_ elves _more_ than milkweed and _honey_.’”

The crowd circling the Duchess de Montsimmard titters with more than just polite amusement, but neither Merrill nor Carver join in the laughter. Merrill’s mouth has tightened into a thin line, and a muscle in the side of her jaw has begun to pulse rhythmically. Instead of speaking, Carver shoves another cheese puff pastry into his mouth.

Her lips twisted into a pleased smirk, the Duchess flutters a peacock feather fan. Her mask, an elaborate silver and porcelain spider-web that cradles her face, catches the low light. It reminds Carver of the shields of the approaching darkspawn army at Ostagar.

“So, _Prince_ Sebastian,” she leans in conspiratorially with a coquettish sweep of her hand; the movement makes the long trail of fabric under her sleeve flap like a wyvern-wing. “When _are_ you going to be _coronated_? You _mustn’t_ host it in the _spring_ ; it will _conflict_ with Val Royeaux’s _season_.”

When the Duchess speaks, her voice rises and falls like an ocean wave, and it makes Carver feel a little seasick.

To the left, Sebastian, resplendent in his gleaming white armor, bows deeply to the Duchess. He has not looked at or acknowledged Carver once all night, although Carver, remembering his orders, has done his best to keep close to the princeling’s conversational circles. Indeed, his mission from Meredith has been a welcome distraction from the memory of Merrill’s warm, graceless weight against his fingers and hips.

“Presently I have no plans to return to Starkhaven,” Sebastian says wearily; it is not the first, or even the tenth, time he has uttered those words within Carver’s earshot.

“ _But_ you _must,_ ” the Duchess draws back, as if she is offended that her social calendar should be thus contradicted. “It should be the _event_ of the _year_. Think of the _dress-makers_ , and the mask _casters_.” She punctuates her sentence with a flirtatious pump of her fan.

“My calling takes me elsewhere, madame,” he says, bowing low.

Her lips briefly, faintly curl into a sneer, and she redirects her attention elsewhere. Unfortunately for Carver, who has just swallowed another pastry whole, elsewhere means _him._

“Serrah _Amell_ ,” she says, her teeth flashing. “Your mask is so very— _Nevarran_.”

“Hawke,” Merrill says. When ten porcelain masks turn, in unison, to her, she does not flinch, or recoil, or, indeed, pretend that she has ever spent any moment of her life _not_ surrounded by questioning faces and slightly hostile sneers. She merely adds, firmly, “His name is Ser Hawke.”

The painted fops stare at her, wide eyes clearly visible behind their ridiculous, glittering masks, and Carver can’t help but smile. She may be a blood mage, but entropy is clearly where Merrill’s natural talents lie: in confusion and illusions, and confounding poor, stupid sots. Carver loves that about her—in fact, he realizes with a start, he loves _many_ things about her, and he chews slower, swallowing, the pastry mash now like ash on his tongue.

In the back of his mind, maybe he’d hoped that this— _regard_ –for her might have faded through the separation of years; a passing fancy; a child’s envy for a forbidden plaything. But if anything, it burns brighter now than before, like a candle that sputters in a strong gust of wind only to grow taller and stronger than ever.

“Thank you, Merrill,” he says, and he means it.

“How very _patriotic_ of you,” continues the Duchess, eyes on Carver, making no indication that she’d heard either of them speak at all, “to _honor_ the Marches _thus._ ”

“If I were being patriotic,” he says, “I’d be wearing a dog mask.”

He means it as a jibe at her, but when the crowd laughs, they all face his direction.

“In _deed_ ,” she says, smiling, her cold eyes gleaming behind her silver cage. “Perhaps a spot of _mud_ to complete the _illusion._ ”

Carver’s face grows hot. Stupid, flouncy wyvern-breathed ham-munchers.

As he opens his mouth to respond, a flash in the corner of his eye catches his attention. It is Cahir, or more specifically, Cahir’s armor. The Chasind has walked up to Duke Prosper, a few circles away, and now glowers at his employer, whispers something into his ear. As Carver watches, Prosper turns to Cahir—and then to _him,_ briefly—and makes a face. The two walk off briskly toward the exit.

 _Trouble._ Carver turns back to the waiting, sneering crowd.

“Next time, I’ll try to wear something more Orlesian,” he says with a shrug. “Perhaps a mask in the shape of Meghren’s severed head.”

Behind her hand, Merrill snorts. It is the only sound in the crowd.

“You’d have to carry around a pike to hold it up,” she adds, miming with her hands.

“Details,” he says. He takes her hand and kisses it to hide his snicker at the gaping mouths and the Duchess’s drooping peacock fan—and also to arrest her attention. “Well, my _jewel_ ,” he says, catching her eyes and holding them, hoping she understands his emphasis. “Might I entice you for a spot of fresh air?”

“No, I rather like where the conversation is going now,” she chirps.

He smirks tightly at her. “Are you sure I can’t tempt you, _my heart_?” He searches her eyes. Nothing. “ _Of the many_?” he whispers.

“Oh! Oh,” she says. She winks obviously at him. “Of course. Let’s go. ” She curtsies to the Duchess. “ _Dareth shiral, shem’alas lath’din._ ”

“Don’t curse at me, you elven _slut_ ,” the Duchess says through clenched teeth.

“Merrill,” Carver says, taking her elbow and leading her away.

“ _Do_ give my _regards_ to your _mother_ ,” the Duchess calls after him, and one or two of the faceless masks around her titter loudly. “And the rest of her Ferelden _dogs._ ”

As they walk off toward the exits, he hears the Duchess say loudly to her retinue, “And did you _hear_ how he made _love_ to his elven _whore_? Pfaugh! How _vulgar._ ”


	39. Masks XII: Leap To Your Death

“Shit,” he hisses, “Merrill, get back, get back—get _back.”_

Carver grabs her elbow, intending merely to pull her behind the corner. But she dangles so far around the stone wall—and perches so precariously in her heeled dance slippers—that when he yanks her backward, she loses balance and topples back into him, heavy and graceless, a warm collision of flesh and feathers and slippery silk.

“Oof—sorry,” she mumbles, and he begins to say the same—but suddenly, he can no longer locate his breath, because as she tries to right herself, her hands scrabble against something that is definitely _not_ his thigh.

He groans and she jerks her hand away as if scalded, shoving herself apart from him; Carver is glad for the corridor’s darkness to hide what his thin breeches now cannot.

“There’s eight of them at least, maybe ten,” she says softly, glaring at the floor, the tips of her ears bright red. “And now that they’ve wrecked up my room, they’ve moved onto yours.”

“Shit,” he says, screwing his eyes shut, steeling himself against the lingering memory of her small hand wrapped so completely around him. _Focus, Carver Hawke,_ he scolds himself in his best Garrett voice, and he tries to think of Ser Alrik in a ruffled nightgown, but all he can see is the faint, yet unmistakable scroll of vallaslin starting just above his sternum, disappearing down, down, to the shadowy depths of his bodice. _“Shit.”_

When he opens his eyes again, Merrill has squared her jaw and begun fiddling with the tie of her halla mask, and Carver remains as hard as stone.

“Back to the ballroom,” she whispers. The tie gives, and she removes the mask from her cheeks with a relieved sigh, cracking her neck. “I’ll find a knife, and then I can—“

“ _N-no_ —no blood magic,” he gasps. His mind races through tactics, strategies, but most of his training is for the battlefield, not a narrow corridor in which he is heavily out-armed and outnumbered. He wishes he remembers more about how he and Garrett survived an entire year in Athenril’s employ—aside from simple, overwhelming desperation. “The situation’s bad enough as is.”

“Fine, have it your way,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “But you’re making this whole survival thing a lot harder than it needs to be. They already have our armor, my staff, your sword—”

“My _sword_ ,” he repeats, horrified.

“Yes, your sword. _And_ my staff. Putting their wicked hands all over it. They better not break it.”

Carver pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let me see.”

He leans over her and surveys down the hall himself. As Merrill said, a unit of guards swarms the hall like a disturbed nest of wasps, albeit wasps with wickedly-curved scimitars and gleaming plate mail. One of them hefts Carver’s sword, showing off the blade to his comrade.

“Great,” Carver mutters. “We finally find Orlesians who know how to hold a sword, and they’re the ones who want to run us through. Lucky us.”

Merrill doesn’t reply, merely grabs his hand and tugs in the opposite direction, back toward the ballroom. “Hurry. We need to find Garrett and Tallis before they do.”

“Wait—“ He stumbles a few steps forward, thrown off balance by the strength of her grip. “What are we going to do without weapons?”

“I have my spells and you can punch things,” she whispers. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

She smiles at him then, a wan, determined thing that stays mostly in her eyes, and tucks a finger or two between his. He feels an answering grin creep to his lips, because he knows her, and she knows him, and even if he is swordless and in a poncy doublet, this is just another waltz, just another turn across the room with the most stunning dance partner a man could ever want.

Suddenly, down the hall, in the direction of where Merrill tugs him, Carver hears the telltale metallic clang of boots on flagstones, sword on breastplate. Smiles vanishing, he and Merrill trade a quick glance, and at the sight of her wide eyes, his heart thumps painfully once, twice in his chest.

Quickly, Carver scans the hallway and notices a small alcove a few feet away, currently occupied by the marble bust of one or another great and jaundiced Montfort ancestor. With a firm flick of his wrist, he tugs her back against him, and she follows easily, artfully, her skirts fluttering.

They twirl into the alcove, knocking against the marble bust but not toppling it. Down the hall the clanging grows louder, and is now accompanied by rough voices; so Carver presses her against the wall, hands on either side of her head, covering her as completely as he can—blocking her body with his so that neither of their faces can be seen.

The noise grows close—but Merrill is closer, staring up at him, breath juddered and heavy, lips mere inches from his own. Her high and heaving breasts skim his chest, and one knee has slipped between his, and her brilliant green eyes search his face as if he were a map homeward, and he has dreamed so many times of this very moment it feels like déjà vu.

In a brief, vivid flash he recalls the old witch; or, rather, the smoky demon that poured itself from the amulet—the second squad of guards is almost upon them now, he hears them turn the corner down the hall—and with every inhale and exhale from Merrill’s lips, and every closer footfall, he hears Flemeth’s smug and ancient voice: _When the time comes, do not cling to regrets –_ “What are you doing?” Merrill breathes – _but jump to your death_ – “This way, men.” – _and learn how to fly._

“Do you trust me?” Her breath is hot, close, and before he can stop himself, he licks his lips.

She swallows and nods.

“Always,” she whispers, raw, low.

He draws a deep breath, closes his eyes, and kisses her.


	40. Masks XIII: The Kiss

Against the press of his closed lips, Merrill makes a muffled squawk of surprise. But as the squad clanks closer, the noise dissolves into a loud moan against his mouth, and then suddenly, her lips part, obliging and warm, and—oh Maker, _she is kissing him back._

She tastes of fruited wine and spice. Her lips pillow softly against his. It is simultaneously exactly and nothing like he’d hoped; better and worse; unreality made flesh and spit and warmth. She is wet and alive against his lips, hungry, needful, wanting, for him, for him, all for him.

Her mask clatters to the ground. She snakes the hand that held it behind his head, raking the hair at the back of his neck with her fingernails, and his eyes flutter open just as hers flutter shut. Suddenly Carver is glad his hands are braced on the wall behind her, because if not, he’d surely topple; as it is, he pitches forward into her, elbows wobbling, blood rushing to his ears, all of Thedas narrowed to a single point of contact.

Her tongue rolls and glides against his, slow, now fast, then slow again; and she moans once more, softer this time, from the back of her throat. It is so much more tantalizing than the noises her shade tortures him with in the Fade every night; that sad mewl of his imagination is nothing compared to the true sound of her, real and pressed against him, hungry, so hungry, a demon made flesh.

From faraway he hears voices—“Serrah. _Serrah_ ,” and “Looks like someone’s got elven fever” and “Just leave him”—and maybe some other things too; but he doesn’t care who they are, or who they’re talking to; he only wishes they’d be quiet, because all that clanging is making it hard to hear the noises coming from Merrill’s throat—although he can _feel_ them, humming against his lips.

She slides her other hand up his chest, around his shoulder, and he whimpers; in reply, she wriggles closer, breasts and hips, stomach and knee.

Eventually the corridor falls silent—or more accurately, he realizes that it has been silent for some time, and that once more, it just her and him together, _together_ , a moment already passing, a moment already gone.

Reluctantly, he pulls away.

Merrill, dazed, out of breath, stares at his lips, his eyes, his lips again. Her hands are still around his neck. Silently she reels back toward him, gravity pulling their bodies together, and heat, and need, and heartbeats. Her fingertips idly stroke a wayward lock at the base of his neck, and it’s all he can do not to roll his eyes in the back of his head.

“You kiss very nicely,” she murmurs.

“Mm-hmm.” He parts his lips, leans in again.

“Like your brother, in fact. Except he’s not as wet around the edges.”


	41. Masks XIV: Forgetting

Carver jerks back.

“Right,” he whispers, once he’s able to catch his breath again. His lips are still warm. They tingle, taste of wine, and _her_. “Right.”

“Good thinking there,” she sighs, voice still muzzy. “Looks like they believed it.”

“Merrill,” he spits her name like a curse, and doesn’t care, “Just stop talking.”

He shoves off the wall with the heels of his palms and marches down the hallway, without turning back. He won’t give her the satisfaction of seeing his face burn.

It’s not until he’s found a side door to the gardens that Merrill catches up to him, and only then because it’s locked. Eyes stinging, he jounces the resistant knob.

“Carver—Carver, _wait_.” She rests one hand on his shoulder, the other on her sternum, and gasps for air. “I can’t walk that fast in shoes.”

“Then take them off,” he says. He shrugs off her hand. “They look stupid on your feet anyway.”

Merrill’s hand hangs in the air for a moment, before she lets it slowly fall to her side.

“Carver,” she says softly. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” he hisses. He kicks the door, and with a great shatter, it bursts open. He stomps through the doorway.

“You seem angry,” she says to his back.

“I’m not.” Carver wheels around. Her hands hang limply at her sides, and she stares dejectedly at the flagstones, but he doesn’t care, he refuses to care. “Well. Aren’t you coming?”

Her gaze slides up to his, brow pinched.

“I should be the angry one,” she says in a low voice, her eyes narrowing, “kissing me like that when you’ve got your own _vhenan’ara_. It’s not fair.”

“I’m sure my brother will help you get over it,” he spits, but he can’t even get it out without choking on the words. Garrett, Blight take him—how is it possible for one man to ruin so many things; to call claim to everything he touches, even – _especially_ – the things he doesn’t want or need? It’s like the puppy Bethany bought Carver when for their tenth nameday—Garrett didn’t even like dogs, but he fed it bacon once and that was it; the mabari was _his_. Suddenly Carver looks up. “You know he doesn’t like girls, don’t you?”

Merrill frowns. “Yes, he does.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Carver hisses. “He never has. He had a girl back in Lothering, but only because he fancied her brother, and in fact I—“

“Stop it, Carver.” She beats her gloved fists once against her thighs. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know that my brother can’t like you the way you like him.” He sweeps his hand through the air, as if he can swat away her doubt, or maybe just his. “And he never will.”

“You’re wrong,” she says, stepping forward, the challenge clear in the set of her jaw.

Carver takes a step forward. “Am I?”

“Yes,” and for a moment she just stares at him, her eyes daring him to ask more, but he won’t, he won’t let her break his heart any more than she already has.

“Besides, what do you care about it?” She closes the distance between them now, jabbing him in the chest with her forefinger. Her face hovers inches from his, hot breath on his lips, tears in her eyes that refuse to fall. For a fleeting moment, Carver thinks she might kiss him—or punch him, as she did so many years ago; and he waits for the impact, welcoming it. But it never comes. “At least _he_ doesn’t go where I can’t follow,” she seethes. “At least _he_ won’t forget me.”

Blood rushes in his ears.

“I could never forget you,” he snaps. “No matter how hard I try.”

Her face softens. “Wh-what?”

Carver blinks, realizing what he’s just said. Inhaling sharply, he looks away and frowns at the hedges. Her hand suddenly is on his jaw, fingers light against clenched muscle, but all he hears is Garrett’s laughter in his ears, and her voice, over and over again, _not as wet around the edges._ He lets her drag his chin to face hers.

“He’s already forgotten us, Merrill,” he says bitterly before she can speak. “He’s already left us behind. Again.” She starts to shake her head in protest, but then he grabs her lingering hand and she stills. “That’s all he does. He picks his favorites and plays at his adventures, and leaves the rest of us to rot. Well. I won’t let him.” He squeezes her hand in his fist. “I won’t sit back and let him, and neither should you.”

“Carver, my hand,” she whispers. “You’re hurting it.”

“Sorry,” he drops it at once, but their fingers catch together and, seemingly of their own accord, refuse to release for several seconds.

“What did you mean just now,” she gulps, staring at their still-twined pinkies, “about forgetting? I mean, y-you, not—not Garrett.”

Carver takes a deep breath.

“Merrill, I—“

With a wet thunk, an arrow lodges in his shoulder.


	42. Masks XV: Same Dance, Different Partner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While I liked MotA well enough, I felt like it missed several opportunities to create a richer player experience--such as greater use of wyvern venom. I mean, Prosper has a pet wyvern—if I were him, I’d milk that puppy for all its worth and outfit all my guards with poison-tipped arrows and swords.
> 
> Because hallucinations—they’re not just for strong drinks anymore, right?

“Get down,” Carver shouts, but it’s already too late, because before he can fall on his own, Merrill has already tugged him down by her side. Another arrow whizzes by, right where her head was not a second prior.

“Bastards are trying to kill us,” he gasps, feeling his wound. It’s not deep, but it stings. Oh Maker, does it _sting._

“Not very hospitable of them,” Merrill agrees. She grabs his hand and tugs him behind a large hedge in the shape of an Orlesian poodle.

“They’re over here,” comes a rough shout from the doorway. Carver bends his head around the hedge, jerking back as another volley whizzes past. But in his brief glimpse, he saw the men already spilling into the courtyard — two archers, six with scimitars. “Spread out.”

“Guess they weren’t fooled after all,” he murmurs. His wound burns, tongues of flame licking his skin. “Shit. And still no weapons.”

For a brief moment, Merrill stares dumbly at the arrow shaft still sticking out of his shoulder. Then, frowning, she tugs off her shoe and breaks the heel from the sole.

“What are you doing?” Carver hisses, blinking away double-vision.

“Saving our skins,” she grits, and before he can stop her, stabs herself in the thigh.

She doesn’t yelp, and she doesn’t shout—she allows herself only the merest of grimaces before the red droplets start to swirl around her like mist. The air crackles, and sparks race along her shoulders and neck, tracing out the path where her vallaslin dip and curl.

Eyes rolling back in her head, she raises one clawing hand. When another arrow sails by her nose, she does not flinch.

“ _May the Dread Wolf take you,_ ” she says in a voice deeper and richer than her own. Like a puppetmaster tugging strings, she clenches her fist, and eight voices cry out in unison, followed by the sound of swords and bows clattering on cobblestones.

“Run,” she whispers in the same arcane voice, only the whites of her eyes visible.

He grabs her around the waist and stumbles forward. He can see the men now, contorted at strange angles, limbs pulled akimbo by invisible strings. One guard’s mask has slipped, and Carver meets the man’s eyes briefly as they dart around in terror.

“You shuddn’ ha’ done dat,” Carver slurs.

“I’ll add it to the list,” Merrill says. Her arm threads under his good shoulder, and he finds himself unable to keep from leaning on her heavily. “Along with wearing shoes and complimenting you.”

“Com—cample—men.“ The word is suddenly too difficult for Carver to pronounce, but he knows he needs to say it; there’s a question here that needs an answer.

Merrill casts him a worried glance. “What’s wrong? It’s just a scratch. I’ve seen you take much worse.”

“Limen—comp—tilmeck—“ How exactly does this word fit together again? All those consonants in strange places. Stupid words. With their letters. In places.

Merrill releases him to the ground and props him up against a ceramic planter. Gently she touches his wound and Carver screams, his world dissolving into only agony, only flame. His spine, of its own accord, seizes and gyrates in time with the pulses of pain that accompany every breath and heartbeat. Throat thick, stomach pitching, Carver whimpers and feels his body lash and crack like a whip.

She lays her hand on his bare cheek. It is cool, or he is hot, or both; and Carver is overcome with need to bury his head against her, as she had earlier laid her head against his armor, and weep, weep for her, weep for him, weep for everything and nothing at all.

But when he pitches forward to do so, she holds him back.

“Stay here,” he hears her say from far away, and he tries to grab her hand before she vanishes, but like the stars winking out above, like the hedges before him melting and reforming into slave statues and then burning windmills and now ash on the wind, she is gone.

He moans, desperate to form the syllables of her name, but his weak mewling is met only with lightning and the falling Tower of Ishal and darkspawn screams, hundreds of thousands of them, a terrible roar, the end of the world. The ground trembles and shakes, and an ogre stomps by him, and he tries to warn Merrill, tries to keep her safe, but then the ogre picks up another planter that is suddenly Bethany, and slams it, slams her against the ground, again and again and again, her brains spilling out on the cobblestones like scrambled eggs in his army rations, and he cannot move, he cannot stop it, he can’t even yell or distract the thing from its pursuit; it just snorts and bashes and snorts and bashes and reeks of rotten things, and now it is coming for him and his company and Garrett and Mother and he can’t move, can’t find his sword, can’t even move his hands, and he promised, he promised Father he’d keep them all safe—

But then the ogre dissolves, split apart like smoke by a creature made of starlight and blood, whose mere proximity makes his tortured nerves sing. As it nears, he can see the telltale horns, the purple hair, but it is so much more beautiful than any demon that has tempted him before, and it wears a silver gown and vallaslin in all the right places and dancing shoes with the soles cut out of them.

“Carver,” it whispers to him. “Dance with me.”

He tries to resist, but the words merely foam out of his mouth and dribble down his chin.

“Dance with me,” it says, lifting him easily, like a rag doll. His toes dangle against the ground, tracing small circles in the grass. Soft music begins to play, a ghostly orchestra counting out the time. _It’s in the frame,_ he remembers from some time long ago, _and not the feet._

“I can be her for you,” it lilts, “Oh, I can be anyone you want, Carver, whoever will make you happy.”

He manages to shake his head once to the side, but his masked cheek—which is no longer a mask; the burning flesh has fused the metal to his skull, forever carving him into two halves of a man, armor and skin, hollowness and fragile bone—collides with a halla horn, and it makes a dull metallic clunk that rattles his ribcage and face and still-convulsing spine.

“Dance with me,” it whispers into his ear tenderly, lovingly, caressing the hair at the back of his neck, “and I will make you whole once more.”

It licks his ear lobe.

He shrieks in agony and desire and rage and everything he cannot place words to, not now, nor ever, and then the demon sobs with him, loud and mournful, an echo of his own release. Clawing at his doublet, it begins to shake him, violently, urgently, with tears in its eyes. “I will have you,” it moans, “one day I will have you, and you will never leave me lonely again.”

The demon fades away, its features softening, transforming from purple hair to black, from horns to pointed ears, from golden eyes to green. Its hands remain on his doublet, though, still shaking him.

“Carver. Carver! Wake up. Oh, please, please wake up, I need you to wake up—please, I don’t—I can’t— _ma’vhenan,_ please, not here, I can’t—“

“Merrill,” he croaks. His throat feels raw, as if he hasn’t spoken for years—or, maybe, as if he’d never stopped.

She squeaks and kisses him once, closed mouth, on the lips.

When she pulls back, for a split second, she has demon horns again, and a wickedly fanged smile.


	43. Masks XVI: A Moment of Recovery

“Merrill,” he gasps again, his shoulder still stinging and raw. “Did you—“

She blushes. “What? Me? No. I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Carver lifts one unsteady hand and tries to cup her cheek, partly in gratitude, partly to trace her dirt- and blood-streaked cheeks with his fingers and assure himself she’s real, not demon-flesh. But he can only move his palm a few inches before groaning and letting it fall back again.

His spine, awkwardly contorted against the ceramic planter, convulses once, weakly, achingly, an echo of its previous seizures. The garden around them suddenly flickers and becomes the blood-soaked greens of Ostagar; and Carver is dancing again, swaying in Merrill’s arms over fallen shields and mangled bodies. Then he blinks, and the garden is returned to normal.

“Are you,” he gulps, and isn’t sure he wants to know the answer, “are you real?”

She nods, face softening. She takes his hand in hers and lays both on his chest. “Last time I looked.”

“The ogre? My—“ Carver takes a deep breath. “My sister?”

“No,” she says gently, “not real.”

He nods. “Lightning?”

“Yep. That was me. The ground shaking, too,” she adds as an afterthought.

“The—“ His lips form the word _demon_ or maybe _dance_ , but it doesn’t matter because he can’t force any air between them, and besides, it couldn’t have been her anyway. Logically, it couldn’t have been. It was all just a trick. A temptation.

One that very nearly succeeded.

“The what?”

He lolls his head back and forth against the planter, and does not look at her. “Nevermind.”

“Shush,” she says. Her thumb brushes the side of his, and at the touch, he once more feels the demon’s long nails raking against his doublet, and through his hair. “Don’t worry; I took care of the guards. We’re safe for now. You just work through—well, whatever this is. It doesn’t last long, from what I can tell.”

“What you—“ Carver coughs. Merrill squeezes his hand, brushes a sweat-drenched lock from his forehead, “you can tell?”

She smiles crookedly, the edges of it not quite reaching her eyes. “I might’ve— _asked_ one of the archers to shoot his friend in the foot. Nicely, of course.”

Carver smiles before he remembers himself, and what it means for a blood mage to “ask nicely”.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he gasps. Merrill rolls her eyes and presses him back down as he tries to push himself up on his elbows.

“So you said before,” she says breezily. “And yet here you are, still alive to complain about it.”

He’s too weak to press the point, and besides, there’s something else at the back of his mind, something important he can’t remember but needs to ask her about—but the pain is making everything muzzy and hard to distinguish.

She frowns. “Here, I’m going to take off your mask,” she says gingerly. “Get you some air.”

“No. _No_ —” he tries to tell her that it’s part of his skin now, that the demon fused him forever into a man of metal and flesh, but he can’t squeeze the words past the thickness in his throat. Another spasm catches his spine and suddenly the garden once again dissolves, this time into the Chateau Haine ballroom, with its glowing faerie lights in the ceiling, hundreds of masked hurlocks chewing and snarling and dancing the Remigold. The purple-haired demon reaches for him once more, long fingers, coy vallaslin, her hungry half-smile promising everything he ever wanted. Carver tries to push her away, or maybe draw her closer, but he only manages to succeed in flopping around a bit.

“Stop that,” she mutters. “You’re not a fish.”

Her clawed hands rest on his cheeks and he squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself; for torture or ecstasy, he no longer cares.

But it never comes. Suddenly a great weight peels away from his other cheek. The night air is cool and bracing on his fevered, clammy flesh, and Merrill — beautiful, black-haired, _elven_ Merrill — once again leans over him. Her green eyes glitter in the darkness like lanterns.

“There you are,” she sighs, setting the mask by her side. “I was beginning to forget what you looked like without it.”

He sucks down the night air in great gasps. “You’re real.”

She smiles wanly. “We decided that already.”

“Say it again.”

She regards him for a long moment, then suddenly she takes his hand again and presses it to her cheek. “See? Real.” Her lips brush against his fleshy part of his thumb, light as a breeze. “I promise.”

He closes his eyes, squeezes them, opens them. She is still there. Carver sighs, relaxing his head against the planter, his hand still in hers, warm and tingling from the remnants of her magic.

At length, she pats his arm with her other hand. “You’ve ruined your fancy doublet, Ser Hawke,” she says, with a sad smile.

“And you’ve ruined your dress, Lady Merrill.” His hand twitches in hers, his thumb gently skirting her jaw. “You can’t take us anywhere.”

She chuckles. He might be imagining it, or maybe it’s just the angle, but it feels like she leans slightly into his hand. “That’s true. We’d just get lost.”

“I don’t mind being lost with you,” Carver murmurs. “Maybe I kind of like it.”

She flushes and drops his hand back to his waist.

He clears his throat.

“Not that we’re lost—Or that I like not knowing where I am—um—that is, I’m feeling better now,” he says, and it must be true, because he’s back to feeling like an ass. “We should probably get moving.”

“Probably,” she says to the cobblestones, the tips of her ears bright red.

She helps him to his feet. He tests his balance. Not a solid stance by any means, but the spasms have stopped, and the garden remains a garden. He feels stronger and steadier by the second.

“No, wait. Carver, I—I’m sorry,” she says softly, carefully, as she lets go of his good shoulder. “That I say such stupid things.”

“You don’t say stupid things,” Carver says.

She makes a face at him.

“Okay, sometimes you say stupid things,” he allows. “But so do I. So we’re a good pair, I’d say.”

“Good dancing partners,” she says.

“The best,” he says, and they share an unsteady grin.


	44. Masks XVII: Donning The Armor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon time: Most mages in Thedas carry a dagger on them at all times, for spell casting and component mashing and the like (also: easy access blood magic!). Merrill obviously couldn’t carry one under her dress, but I’d figure Garrett could sneak one under his doublet—the sleeves certainly are fluffy enough to hide an excess of weaponry.

“Well, this looks like the guardsmen’s office. Let’s just hope our equipment’s all here.” Carver eyes the door down the passageway and rolls his bad shoulder, testing the hold of Merrill’s makeshift bandage. The wound long ago stopped burning, and now it feels as any other shallow puncture might. “So—should we try to sneak in under their noses? Or should we kick the door down?”

Merrill shrugs. “I say kick. We’re not very good at sneaking, are we?”

Carver smirks. With a quick flick of his thumb, he wipes a smudge of soot off Merrill’s cheek. “I suppose we _are_ a right pair of Tevinter oliphants.”

No, he didn’t imagine it; she _definitely_ leaned into his touch that time– a brief thing, but he felt it. Her brow knits thoughtfully. “Can’t we be griffons? I’d much prefer griffons.”

“It’s just a metaphor, Merrill.”

“I know,” she smirks, “But I like griffons.”

“Well.” He puffs out his chest. “Do griffons do this?”

He sprints down the corridor and, with a terrible roar worthy of the most ambitious Hanged Man drunk, kicks the door so hard it bursts inward with a splintering crack. Carver raises his fists to the sky and stands on his tiptoes, ululating like a Chasind warrior.

“They could, I suppose,” Merrill says, sidling next to him. Carver tastes magic on the air, hears the crackle of sparks, “but I always thought griffons would be quieter—and swoopier.” She pauses, lets her magic fade back into her skin. “We’re not lost again, are we? I mean, there’s nobody here.”

The office is indeed empty. Benches pushed to various angles surround a few in-progress Diamondback games. Steaming tin cups and half-eaten food is spread across tables and desks. A weapon rack stands empty against the wall.

“Looks like they already went looking for us,” Carver says. He shrugs. “Well, luck to us. Our equipment must be around here somewhere—I hope—we just need to find it.”

Merrill strolls into the office. Idly, she picks up a serial that has been bent at the spine to mark the page. “Look!” she squeals, bouncing on her toes. “ _Hard in Hightown: A Feast of Brennicovicks._ Oh, Varric will be so pleased.”

Carver clucks, smiling. “Is he still writing that serial? I remember when he first started it.”

Nodding, she replaces the book reverently on its bench. “It’s almost done now, because,” Merrill lowers her voice into a mimicry of Tethras’s smooth drawl, “Donnen’s getting too old for this shit.”

Carver grins at her. He opens up a chest by what appears to be an officer’s desk. Nothing, just some smut and a change of clothes. “He should write one about mages and Templars next.”

“That’s what I said, too!” She opens a standing cabinet and makes a disgusted noise as a moth flutters out of it. “But he said he wasn’t interested in ‘true crime’.”

Carver opens the desk drawers, closes his hand around a suspiciously official looking key with a wyvern head. “Maybe griffons, then.”

“Or oliphants,” she adds. “Look, there’s a locked cabinet over here.”

Carver walks over to Merrill, and, with a shrug, tries fitting the key in the lock. The cabinet swings open. Inside is Merrill’s staff and robes, Carver’s sword, and his plate mail jumbled together like an upended toybox.

For some reason, when he sees the flaming sword blazon he feels slightly disappointed, like a child at a nameday party whose parents have come to fetch him too soon.

“Finally,” she sighs happily, “no more corsets.”

She grabs her robes and immediately starts stripping away her gloves and stockings. Carver whirls around, flushing.

“Wh-what—are you just going to-to dress here?”

“Well, I can’t very well go back to my quarters, can I?” She makes a scuffling noise, and a groan of displeasure. “Here, can you unlace me? I can’t—quite—reach.”

He swallows thickly. Without looking, he flails his arm behind him.

“Ow,” she yelps, as his hand collides with the top of her head. “I’m not laced up there, Carver.”

“Sorry,” he mutters. _Sorry, Moira,_ he silently adds as he turns, slowly, like a condemned man walking to the gallows. Gulping again, he draws the strings through the backing of her dress with shaking hands. He frowns. “These—strings,” he gasps. “They’re like dwarven clockwork.”

“I know,” she huffs. “I had to ask for two elves to help me get into this. They weren’t very nice about it, either. I think they tied it so tight on purpose.”

Carver tugs the loosened lace free, and Merrill moans so loudly and unabashedly that it makes him glad she’s facing the opposite direction. But suddenly she turns around, hands holding the gaping front of her bodice to her skin, and he spins on his heel so fast that he pitches slightly off balance.

“Thank you,” she says, her voice faintly tinged in amusement.

“Y-you’re welcome,” he stutters, willing himself to breathe. Carver may not be particularly religious, but as he hears the telltale _shhnk_ of silk tumbling to the ground in a heap, he begins to silently mouth the opening to Transfigurations 12, just in case.

“Aren’t you going to get dressed too?” Merrill says sweetly, so sweetly.

“I’ll wait ‘til you’re done,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut as he hears a jingle of chainmail, a few happy grunts, the slide of cloth on skin. _Oh Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights; steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked…_

Then, finally, another sigh, lurid in its pleasure. “Done,” she chirps, and pats the tops of her thighs. “Your turn.”

When he turns around, Merrill is (thankfully) fully dressed and holding out his armor, a cheeky light in her eyes. He takes it from her and waits for her to turn around. She doesn’t.

“Um, Merrill—“ He draws a tight circle with his finger.

“Won’t you need help getting in—“

“I won’t,” he squeaks, even though the process would indeed go much quicker if he did have someone to buckle his straps and pull on his plate, especially given his injured shoulder.

She shrugs and turns slowly—reluctantly—around.

Carver concentrates as hard as he can on the individual pieces of armor, which shiny bit connects to what strap and how, just so he doesn’t have to focus on Merrill _not_ watching him: how she shifts from foot to foot, the way her fingers drum along the grooves of her staff – or worse yet, that little half-smile that flickered across her face before she turned. That cheeky half-smile. That knowing, playful, hungry half-smile – Carver, despite himself, begins to wonder just how long it would take him to tease out its other half.

“Merrill, I—“ His hands begin to shake, just as hers cease drumming. “You’re right, I won’t be able to put on this pauldron with my shoulder. Could you maybe—“

Merrill doesn’t respond. She steps toward the cabinet. Kneeling, she pulls out a mage dagger—the kind every good mage keeps close to their skin, and never relinquishes, not even over their staff.

It’s Bethany’s.

“Balls,” Carver sighs.


	45. Masks XVIII: Not At All Likely To Collapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cookie to anybody who catches the Zork reference!

“Carver.” Merrill stops and squints at a nearby pillar. “We’ve passed that same cracked tile three times now.”

“Blast it.” Carver frowns at the tunnels around them, an underground warren of prisons, larders and storage pantries. How was it again that Varric described caves in his stories? ‘A maze of twisty passages, all alike.’ _Some more alike than others,_ Carver thinks sourly. “How could we get so turned around? We went left last time, didn’t we?”

“I knew I should have packed my ball of twine,” she says, scratching the back of her head.

“Okay.” Carver puts his hands on his hips, widens his stance. He’s a Templar. He can do this. This is nothing. Garrett’s fine. Just—imprisoned. Probably. They wouldn’t have killed him. He’s got too much money. And then, of course, there’s the wyvern thing. He’s fine. Garrett’s _fine_. “We’re lost together. Both of us.” Carver starts, realizing what he’s just said. “Er—not that we’re _together_ together.”

Merrill swings her arm idly back and forth, as if they were strolling some Lowtown bazaar and not a sprawling fortress prison. “If we have to be lost somewhere, at least it’s a nice hallway.”

Carver quirks an eyebrow.

“Very well-built,” she continues with a casual shrug. “Not at all likely to collapse.”

“Err—right.” The possibility hadn’t even occurred to him, but now that she’s mentioned it, yes, this is solid construction. Old, cracked in spots, maybe; but not particularly dark or claustrophobic, as some parts of the Gallows can be. The thought is slightly, and oddly, reassuring. “Well. Back to rescuing?”

He glances over at Merrill. Her smirk—that same secretive half-smile he’d seen back in the guardsmen’s offices—is now unmistakable in its intent.

“Wait,” he says, but she doesn’t; instead she starts walking. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

In response she merely giggles, and his heart flip-flops into his throat.

Carver doesn’t know what to say or do, or how a simple laugh can so undo him, so he just runs down the hallway after her—maybe faster than he really should, as his armor now clanks loudly enough to attract an entire battalion of guardsmen.

But would that really be so bad? Right now half of him welcomes the prospect of a quick death. The other half feels like he could take on an archdemon in single combat.

They travel in silence for a time—unusual for Merrill, and for him, and for the two of them together. The weight of words unspoken closes in around Carver, pressing on his throat, his chest, until he can bear it no longer.

“You’re too quiet,” he says, and grimaces at how Templar-y he sounds.

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “I’m not thinking about anything. Um. Oh.”

“What? I didn’t—“ He narrows his eyes. “Wait—what _were_ you thinking about?”

She won’t look at him. “I already told you. Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Merrill?”

“Oh, _alright._ ” She stops walking and folds her arms across her chest. Defiantly, she glares at the wall. “I was thinking of kisses.”

“Kisses,” he repeats lamely. Did it just get warmer here? _Much_ warmer?

“Yes. That is—” She shifts from foot to foot, then takes a deep, steadying breath. When her gaze at last returns to him, she looks as if she’s facing down an archdemon of her own. “I kissed your brother once.”

Carver’s stomach sinks. Suddenly he feels very, very stupid.

“Yes, so you said.” He tries not to frown, but fails miserably. “’Not as wet…’ Well. The point is, I remember.”

“Elgar’nan,” she flaps her hands at her sides, “why do should that make you so sour? I meant that as _compliment._ ”

A dry, hollow chuckle escapes Carver’s lips. “A compliment? What part of ‘you kiss like your brother except not as well’ am I supposed to be flattered by?”

She flushes bright scarlet, redder than he’s ever seen her before. Her vallaslin almost disappear against her flesh.

“That’s not what I said,” she says meekly, and drops her gaze to the floor. “Oh.”

“Sorry,” he hisses. “More like, ‘Like your brother, except he’s not as wet around the edges’, right?”

“But I,” she says in a small voice, “I _like_ wet around the edges.”

Carver’s breath rushes out of him all at once, deflating him like a popped soap bubble.

“It—it means you like it,” she continues. She scuffs at a tile with her toe. “Kissing me, I mean.”

Carver tries to speak, but for the life of him, he can’t remember a single word of trade tongue. Merrill takes another deep breath.

“As I said, I kissed your brother once.” Carver manages a noise, but she holds up her palm and he falls silent. “He didn’t kiss me back. He just—stood there,” she sighs, “and then, after, he thanked me, and said that Anders was coming over soon, and that I was welcome to stay for dinner.”

“Ouch,” Carver manages.

“So,” she looks at him now, eyes large, jewel-like, “What you said before, about him not, um, wanting me the same way I want— _him_? You were wrong. Do you understand?”

“Uh,” Carver says. “Not really.”

“Carver,” she takes a step toward him, “What I want—I mean, what I’ve wanted for a long time—it’s—er, I—“

“Brother!” rings out Garrett’s merry voice through the stone hallway. Merrill squeaks and leaps backward several feet.

Carver, murderous, slowly turns an about-face. Down the corridor are Garrett and Tallis. They stand several feet apart. Garrett’s arms are crossed, and he wears a knowing smirk that’s no less than an invitation for fratricide.

“Glad to see you two could make it to _my_ rescue,” he chirps.


	46. Masks XIX: The Traitor Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it always bothered me that Merrill didn’t object more to Tallis being Qunari. I mean, here's this former First, trained in all the old ways of the Dalish, her whole life about the preservation of Dalish culture against an entire world bent on its destruction, right? And then along comes Tallis, this woman who couldn’t care less—indeed, who’s got a massive chip on her shoulder about how struggle is an illusion and victory is in submission and elves aren’t special in any way, and blah blah blah -- not to mention that the Qunari have done some pretty awful things to the elves over the years. And yet? Still the Kirkwall city elves are apparently converting, en masse, to the Qun.
> 
> Sure, Merrill’s not exactly a pillar of alienage society, so maybe she’s not always aware of what’s going on right under her nose, but what she does hear must rub her the wrong way, because it suggests nobody cares about elven heritage and all her work is for nothing. It’s as CrazyElf McCrazyPants says during the saar-qamek incident, “My people go to the Qun for purpose. We lose them twice.”
> 
> So forgive the spot of headcanon here. I just don’t think a woman who gives up everything she knows and is to restore a priceless Dalish artifact would content herself, when confronted with a Qunari elf, with a single conversation about whether kossith treat elves “nicely”.

“Oh Maker,” groans Carver. “She’s _Qunari?_ ”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, a futile action to stave off the sudden pounding in his head. Of course. Of course his brother would somehow sniff out the one dangerous spy in all of Thedas that Carver had been sent to locate _without detection_. Of course he would immediately take to her, start flirting with her, shamelessly, _relentlessly_ , doing whatever she asked of him, even if it meant an international incident and possibly starting a war. _Of course._ Because what does he care? He’s _Garrett Hawke_ , and he can do whatever the hell he pleases.

Maker. It’s like Carver’s twelve again, and he has to stop his older brother from rubbing up against the new Templar recruits like a mabari in heat.

“Blighted balls, Garrett,” he moans. “Where do you find these people?”

“Usually at midnight ambushes,” Garrett sneers. “Great place to meet women. You should try it sometime.”

“I’ll pass,” says Carver. “Pfuagh. The minute I saw her, I knew there was something suspicious. Far too cute to be anything but evil.”

His brother rolls his eyes. “Sure you did, Brennicovick.”

Carver spares a glance toward Tallis, who leans against a pillar, examining her fingernails with great interest. “Never mind me,” she says sourly. “I’ll just wait here until your aristocratic sense of horror and distaste has been satiated.”

“You’re lucky we don’t run you through,” he grits.

“And why don’t we?” says Merrill, in a low, dangerous voice.

Startled, Carver turns to her to reply, but when he sees her icy expression, the words quickly die in his throat.

Slowly, like a prowling cat, Merrill advances on Tallis. Although Merrill is several inches shorter, especially without her boots, she now seems as tall as the overseer statue standing in the Gallows.

“She’s a Qunari elf,” she mutters, crossing her arms. “A blood traitor.”

“Cute.” Tallis smirks and looks to Garrett for agreement, but his brow is furrowed, his jaw set. Not a flicker of reassurance crosses his face. Smile evaporating, Tallis pushes off of the pillar to face Merrill squarely.

“So. Do the Qunari treat elves well then,” says Merrill. It is not a question.

“They treat elves like anyone else,” says Tallis, shrugging. Her hands slide to her hips, close to her dagger pommels.

“But they do such terrible things. I thought—“ But she bites back whatever it is she was about to say, nostrils flaring, upper lip curling into a terrible snarl. “Well. Nevermind what I thought.”

Carver’s never seen Merrill like this before. Even when he came to her after what happened to Sulahnni, she was a tangle of arms and fists and shouted curses. Now she is a snake, coiled to strike.

Tallis’s eyes narrow. “Elves are not exempt. We all pay a price for freedom.” With a sweep of her arm, she deftly sidesteps out of Merrill’s easy reach. “Ask yourself if the price an elf pays here is better or worse.”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“Eventually,” Tallis interrupts her, and Merrill’s face twitches, “all of us will have to.”

“I don’t want to think about the price you paid for your _freedom_ ,” Merrill continues. “The chains may be broken, Tallis. But none of us, none are truly free.”

The words sound so familiar, and Carver knows he has heard them before, somewhere, some place important, but all he can recall is the way the leaves of the vhenadahl tree in the alienage dappled the midmorning sunlight, and the smell of dirt and sweat.

Merrill continues. “And how can we be? Our culture has been obliterated, our language erased, our people scattered and repressed. The Qun does not solve that.”

“It doesn’t pretend to,” Tallis replies, backing away. “You can’t bring the dead back to life.”

“Dead is not the same as forgotten,” Merrill says, and her voice is like iron. “And we _can_ remember.”

“Or we can move on,” says Tallis.

“Which sounds like a good idea,” Garrett finally interjects. “We should move on. You know. Before they find us.” Garrett slaps Carver on the back. He smiles, ugly and raw, like a dog baring its teeth. “To the caves! Right, brother?”

“Right,” Carver sighs. “Because that’s exactly what this cock-up needed: poisonous spiders.”


	47. Masks XX: Memories of Broken Things

“Are you sure this goes anywhere? Other than down, that is,” Carver asks, eyeing the crack in the wall with no small suspicion. The rock face looks sturdy enough, but whether he can squeeze through without removing all his armor is another concern.

“Yes,” Tallis says. “I think.”

Garrett exhales heavily. The low light carves deep grooves under his eyes, and catches along the tiny silver streaks in his hair and beard. He looks like Father again.

Tallis frowns at him, and hastily continues. “I stole old plans, back from the Fourth Blight. This was a Retreat, they called it,” and every word sounds like a child, begging, “At any rate, there’s an exit that leads to the mountainside. That’s your way out.”

“Fine,” Garrett sighs, waving his hand distractedly at Tallis. He refuses to look at her, to even turn his body in her direction. “Whatever you say.”

Carver wonders if he’s thinking about the Qunari back in Lothering, the one that killed Bethany’s best friend. It was the talk of the town: the tan giant, covered in blood, hands and chest and mouth _dripping_ with it; but when the thing was discovered at its crime, it just stood there, patiently waiting to be captured, dumbly, like a cow to slaughter.

Carver passed it a few times in its cage near the town square, and it would watch a boy as hungrily as it would a man: hulking, stinking, its breath ragged and loud. Once, when Bethany thought nobody was looking, she zapped a simple frost spell into its cage, and even while the two of them fought and bit and struggled right outside the bars, it watched, just watched, silent and foul. Finally, when they stopped, it spoke — the only time Carver heard it make noise — and it grumbled something that sounded like “sary-bahs”, which at the time Carver thought was just a particularly menacing animal call, like a dog howling wordlessly at the moon.

Carver hated having to leave Bethany with it when he left for Ostagar. Not that he was worried it would get loose. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Why anyone would willingly convert to the religion of such monsters is beyond Carver. Yet that’s exactly what Tallis did; she ran to those beasts for purpose, for meaning—clings to them still, even as they try to shake her off like a bad barnacle. Which, Carver thinks, probably makes Tallis as much of a monster as those hulking beasts – more so, perhaps, because she wasn’t born into this life, she chose it of her own free will. She gave in. She surrendered. Carver wonders how exactly the kossith broke her. Could she ever be repaired?

As Carver regards his brother — looking so much older and softer now in a younger man’s robes, not at all the puffed-chest statue he remembers from his youth — he feels sorry for Garrett, sorry and sad, because he knows that one day, Garrett’s love of broken things will get him killed.

Hopefully, of course, that day is not today.

Merrill walks up to Garrett, places a hand on his shoulder. The tension eases out of his shoulders and brow. Carver’s heart swells fondly, although he wishes it weren’t so easy for her to put his brother’s heart to rest.

“Caves,” she says, not looking at Tallis, only at the crack in the wall. “I like caves!”

Garrett smiles at her the same way he’d smile at Dog. “No you don’t, Merrill.”

“Ohh, right. Giant spiders and things live in caves,” she says lightly, and Carver wonders if Garrett knows that Merrill isn’t as absentminded as she pretends, or if he even cares. “What am I thinking of then? Ruins?”

Garrett chuckles and turns to Carver. “You know what they say: You can take the elf out of the ruin…” He inhales sharply, inclines his jaw, unslings his staff. Readies for battle. “Well, shall we?”

Carver allows himself a swift glance at Tallis. She stands a few feet apart, staring nowhere in particular, looking small, thin, almost lost.

“This is unlike you, brother,” Carver says, turning back to Garrett.  
Garrett quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Usually we have to touch everything first,” Carver smirks, “loot every corpse and barrel.”

“Already have enough torn trousers and amulets.” Garrett smiles sadly. “I’m just anxious to get home now, I suppose.”

It takes Carver a few seconds to realize Garrett means Kirkwall.


	48. Masks XXI: Distractions

“What’s that?” Merrill says, stopping on the path.

Carver peers out across the cavern. A vast lake stretches back into the darkness, its waters shimmering pale and silvery, like liquid moonlight. Here and there shafts of light spill down from the ceiling, illuminating fat stalagmites and rotted wooden docks.

“There’s a lake,” says Garrett. “In the middle of a mountain.”

Tallis, who has not sheathed her daggers for the past hour, sidles back along the pathway and looks out over the water. Shoulders back, posture rigid, she says coolly, “The Retreat needed to house hundreds of people during the Blight, if not thousands. Can’t do that without fresh water.”

“You certainly know a lot about Grey Warden history.” Carver says.

“Stolen plans, remember?” she snaps. Scowling, she stalks off to take point.

“Wonder if being Qunari’s the only thing she was hiding,” Carver mutters to his brother.

Garrett shrugs. “Maybe she’s also a magister.”

“Or a dwarf,” says Carver.

“Maybe. She’s even beardless. Just my type.” Garrett smirks at his brother and continues down the path.

Carver turns to Merrill, who did not move throughout the exchange. The elf just continues to stare out at the lake; her thumb and forefinger idly worrying the faded embroidery along her tunic hem.

“Come on, Merrill,” Carver says. “We don’t want to fall behind in this rotted ghasthole.”

In reply, she sighs once, long and low.

“Are you okay?” he asks. He lays a gauntleted hand on her shoulder as gently as he can, but still he can’t help but feel its awkward geometry, and the weight of it on her slender bones.

“No,” she murmurs. She lays one small, slender hand on his, another idle gesture; he wonders if she even did it consciously. “Look at it. It’s so pretty, almost like a mirror.”

He fights the urge to twitch his hand under her touch, to fidget until her palm lays flat against his. “It’s _water_.”

“That doesn’t mean it can’t also be pretty,” she says. She glances at him briefly, then back at the lake. “And to think, we’re the only ones who’ve seen this, who even know it’s here. Once the Blight was over, everyone else just forgot about it.”

“Well, you won’t forget,” he says. “And I won’t. Garrett might, but that’s only because he didn’t see his face in it.” Merrill does not laugh, but she does not move her hand from his either, so he gives her shoulder a little squeeze, as much as he can manage without squealing the metal or pinching her skin. “Merrill, it’s just a lake. Why do you look so sad?”

She sighs. “This is almost over, isn’t it?”

“One can only hope.” His heart aches at how far away her gaze looks, not fixed on the lake but some place farther, past Orlais, or even the Marches; a memory perhaps, or maybe just an idea.

“No, I mean—“ She turns to him, expression still distant. “When this is all done, you’ll hop on your ship and we’ll get on ours, and then even though we live in the same city, we probably won’t see each other for another two and a half years.”

He starts to bring his other hand to her cheek, but the skritch of metal on metal makes him stop.

“You could always start another riot,” he says softly. “That got my attention.”

She chuckles without any real mirth. “Maybe,” she continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Maybe that’s how it should be. Fewer distractions that way.”

“Merrill.” He waits a few seconds for Garrett to swoop in, as he always does, the Master of Inappropriate Timing—but is met only with stillness, and the joined sound of their breath. He swallows against the dryness in his throat.

“I won’t lie to you and say we’ll stay in touch,” he says softly. “I have my duty, my orders. And you have your duty too, and a life, and I—I don’t belong in it.”

His voice hitches at how her eyes shimmer, large green pools in the deep. Before he can stop himself again, he brings his gauntlet to her jawline, touching one metal finger against her pale vallaslin.

“But I meant what I said before,” he says slowly. “I could never forget you. Never.”

She slides an answering hand along his cheek, where just a few hours earlier had laid the silverite mask. Her hand is warm but not feverish, and it does not tremble. Her touch is as steady as iron.

“Please try, _ma vhenan_ ,” she says, her fingers curling against his cheek.

Then her hand falls, and she is gone.


	49. Masks XXII: A Dance with a Chasind

A gate crashes down, separating Tallis from the rest of the party. At once behind them are footfalls—many of them, crashing down the path from which they came, echoing like ghast-calls along the rock. Carver turns just as Cahir, the duke’s Chasind bodyguard, rounds the bend, leading a small squadron of men in robes.

Carver and Merrill draw their weapons, synchronistic, fluid. But Garrett does not arm himself. Instead, he turns back to Tallis, accusation in his eyes—and Carver can see it, his brother’s graceless heart splintering and reforming, this time without her in it.

Across the gate, fists on the metal, Tallis yells, “Trust me.”

Garrett’s eyes narrow. “No.”

He turns back to Cahir. The ruddy-cheeked hulk snarls at the party and somehow manages to appear menacing, even though he, like the fops on the hunt, is bedecked in a laughable mish-mash of cultures and fashions. He wears Orlesian leathers, but traditional Fereldan tattoos scroll across his face, and his hair pulls back into tight cornrows, like the kossith back in Lothering. Even his axe is of dwarven make. Nothing is his own. He is simply another Orlesian totem of peoples stronger than their own, subjugated and contained, kept as a leashed pet as surely as the elven servants or the mabari.

“Blighted _Orlesians_ ,” Carver mutters.

Merrill’s hands start to glow as she silently crafts some ward or another. Cahir eyes her up and down. His lip curls.

“The Circle,” he smiles with teeth, “are not the only ones who know how to break a mage.”

He gestures behind him, and Carver notices the men surrounding Cahir for the first time. They’re—mages, he thinks, if only because they’re dressed in fur-lined Ferelden battle robes, down to the strange hats he remembers from Ostagar, the ones that look like exploded chickens. But on their faces are hideous masks, stitched from wyvern skin – the mouths sewn into a pucker, coarse seaming across the cheeks and forehead. Worst of all are the eyeholes: great, sightless gashes from which no glimmer of iris or sclera peeks – not even ruined or scarred flesh, where eyes might have once been. Just darkness, terrible darkness, and nothing human underneath.

The naked glee with which Cahir gauges Garrett and Merrill’s sagging mouths, their pale cheeks, makes Carver tremble in barely contained rage.

“The duke is a fool,” Cahir continues, smirking. “His enemies, a posturing, guileless lot. But you—you are worth testing. Prosper can fight his own battles. And I shall choose mine.”

Carver isn’t sure whether Cahir strikes first, or if he does. But suddenly the small cavern erupts in light and sound, and the fury of metal on metal, the stink of arcane heat. A few well-placed silences and smites take care of the mages—and Carver’s stomach churns when he realizes that, as they go down, they do not scream as men do, or even darkspawn; they do not cry or burble or even gasp. They make not a sound, not even a dying breath.

Carver, trading heavy blows with Cahir, narrowly pirouettes out of the way of a dagger that whistles past Cahir’s head. The two pause, sword and axe crossed, and turn to find the weapon’s source.

“Missed,” shouts Tallis. She stands on a ledge near the gate, about fifteen feet off the ground. “That would have been a nice shot, too.”

“You probably would have hit him, if you’d been down _here_ instead,” chirps Merrill, as she flings a spirit bolt toward the new wave of reinforcements trundling up the path behind Cahir.

Cahir meets Carver’s eyes with a questioning look. Carver shrugs, and pushes him back. The two men begin to circle each other again.

“You didn’t think I was leaving, did you?” says Tallis.

“You’re back, great,” grunts Garrett, as he blocks a scimitar with his staff. “Now shut up and help us.”

Suddenly Cahir charges Carver, axe handle stretched out before him, and Carver’s foot slips on the cavern muck. He trips backward, his sword clattering across the cavern floor, and the Chasind lands heavily on top of him.

The axe handle catches under Carver’s chin, and Cahir leans into it, crushing the wood against his windpipe. Carver scrabbles against the Chasind, but his gauntlets find no purchase against the smooth leathers. Stars begin to form in Carver’s vision. His throat burns. He gasps for air.

There’s a sharp crack, and Cahir suddenly pitches forward, on top of Carver, motionless and heavy.

Carver rolls the man partly off of him. Smoke curls from a blasted, charred hole in his neck.

From across the cavern, Merrill smirks at him. One of her hair braids is sweat-plastered against her forehead, and she has soot marks across her cheeks like smudged vallaslin. Carver thinks she’s never been more beautiful.

“Well,” says Tallis, wiping a dagger on a fallen mage, “that was exciting.”

“I thought you’d left already,” Garrett says.

Tallis can’t conceal the hurt on her features. “Nonsense,” she says softly. “I found us a way around. I said I’d get you out of here and I meant it.”

Garrett merely shrugs and shoulders his staff.

Tallis sighs. “Let’s just keep going. The exit can’t be much further.”

Merrill strides over to Carver, and helps him roll the corpse away. She pulls him to his feet. “Thanks,” Carver murmurs. He holds her hand a second or two longer than perhaps is necessary, rubbing his thumb once, briefly, along her bare knuckles.

“My pleasure,” she says, then frowns. “Er, well, it’s not my pleasure that you got hurt. Or almost hurt. Um. I’ll just stop talking now.”

Carver’s stomach flip-flops again, but for a different reason.

He walks over to where his sword has skittered, underneath a fur-lined sleeve. Carver nudges the arm with his foot, unwilling to touch the still-human flesh beneath.

“Do you see what he’d done to these mages?” he asks. Merrill nods, disgusted, and Carver picks up his sword as carefully as he can. “That’s sick, it is. As bad as the Qunari.”

“Try not to get any ideas,” Garrett sighs, rubbing scorch marks his staff with his sleeve.

“The Order isn’t perfect,” Carver scowls, “but at least we don’t mutilate anyone.”

“Yet,” Garrett says.

Carver stops. His mouth dangles open. “You can’t—brother, you can’t think we’d do something like this. That I—that we—would be capable.”

Garrett’s brow knits. “All I see here is forward thinking,” he says. “A fashion trend in the making.”

Then he finally looks at Tallis, and his eyes burn.


	50. Masks XXIII: Decision

“After everything you’ve already done,” Garrett says, eyes narrow and cold, “why would I help you again?”

“Because—“ Tallis looks as if she’s about to say something, but then just stares at the ground for a long moment, several seconds past what could be considered a dramatic pause. Then suddenly, she darts her hand out to Garrett’s face. He flinches back. “I’ve got your nose?”

Garrett stares at her, unmoving, unblinking. Carver notices the corners of his mouth twitch, ever-so-briefly. In a tired voice he eventually asks, “The Qun taught you that?”

“If I were following the Qun, I would actually _have_ your nose,” Tallis says smugly, but then she lets her shoulders drop with a heavy sigh. “I—suppose that doesn’t help. If I’d had my way, you never would have been this involved in the first place.”

Any hint of a smile playing on Garrett’s face has vanished.

“You’ve made your argument,” he says in a commanding voice that reminds Carver, oddly, not of Father but of Mother. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Whatever you decide. I’d be a fool to have a reluctant partner at my back,” she says, shrugging. But then her face softens. She is, Carver realizes with some surprise, at a loss. “But I—get the feeling you’re an exceptional person, Hawke. Here’s your chance to prove it.”

Without another word, she walks over to another path, leans her bottom against a stalagmite, and stares at the cavern wall.

Deflating, Garrett turns to Merrill and Carver. His brother leans heavily on his staff, and Carver can see his Deep Roads robes torn in several new spots, mostly across his paunch, and scorch marks smudge his lined face and bared arms. Lines, stark and deep, criss-cross his face like an unfolded map.

“Well?” he mutters. “Do we help her or not?”

“Yes,” says Merrill at the exact moment Carver says, “No.”

“You can’t be seriously considering it, Garrett,” says Carver, side-eyeing Merrill. “She’s a monster.”

“She’s an _elf,_ ” Merrill corrects him. “She may be wrong, but she’s still one of my people.”

“Oh, I think she gave up the right to be considered that once she started having tea parties with the Arishok.” Carver swallows against the bile rising in his throat. He fights to keep his voice low. “Do you remember what one of her ‘people’ did back home in Lothering? Or what they did to Ketojan?”

“I remember,” Garrett snaps, not meeting Carver’s gaze. “But she’s not them.”

“Of course she is!” Across the cavern, Tallis’s head swivels toward them, then, just as quickly, swivels back. Carver clears his throat. “Of course she is,” he repeats in a softer tone. “She’s part of that system. That’s the madness her kind want to impose on us. On you.” Carver puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Garrett, she thinks you’re an animal. She wants to sew your mouth shut.”

Garrett shrugs off his gauntlet.

“And how, _Ser Hawke_ ,” he says, voice tense, “is that any different than what the Templars wish to do to me?”

“What—no, Garrett, I—this isn’t the time—” Carver begins.

“No—no, I’m starting to see Anders is right. Mages will never get a fair shake, no matter where we go or what _system_ we’re under,” Garrett says. He glares at Carver. “Qunari, Orlais, Gallows, it’s all the same. You all want to sew up our mouths in the end.”

“Garrett,” Merrill interjects over the sound of Carver sputtering, drawing Garrett’s attention. “You know how I feel about the— _choice_ she made. But she’s right. If it’s people she wants to save, not religious fanatics or enemies, just people, well—we help people, don’t we?”

Garrett’s expression softens, and the years melt away from his face. “I—I suppose we do.”

“They’re innocents. Refugees,” she says. Garrett’s fingers clench around his staff. “They just want to live their lives. Surely you can understand what that’s like?”

Smiling faintly, she lightly bonks the head of her staff against his.

Carver looks at Merrill, to Garrett, then to Merrill again. She has a point.

His hands still shake with the aftershocks of frustration and rage, but Carver’s not sure he feels particularly angry any longer. He’s not sure, really, _what_ he feels. This should be a black and white situation. It’s obvious: Qunari vs. humans; or, well, Qunari vs. two humans and an elf. But if there are innocents involved—Maker, why is everything always so much more complicated when his brother is around?

Suddenly Carver is tired, so very, very tired, and he wants nothing more than to be nineteen again and back in Gamlen’s shack, tracing the whorls in the bunk above him until he falls asleep.

“She screwed up,” Carver says without any real heat.

“Then she should come with us,” Merrill says. “Do what she can to put things right.”

Garrett looks to the ground, churning the decision over in his mind, and when he looks up, Carver can see that once again, his opinion has been overruled.

Carver sighs. He notices half a feather still stuck in Merrill’s hair, and has the sudden urge to pluck it out, to hold it between his thumb and forefinger and watch it drift away.


	51. Masks XXIV: Good Old Fashioned Beasts

Carver tilts his chin to the sky, inhales deeply the crisp, pine-scented air. “Sunshine,” he sighs happily. “Maker but I hate caves.”

“It’s morning already?” Merrill pouts. “I was hoping we might catch the sunrise.”

Carver stretches his arms out wide, filling as much space as he can, enjoying the lack of stone walls to push back against his hands. “We’re on the run for our lives and you want to stop for a sunrise?”

“Mountain sunrises are prettier than normal sunrises,” she says.

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re closer to the sky,” she says, as if the answer were obvious. “No towers or buildings or statues to get in the way. Just you and all the colors lighting up the world.”

“Huh.” He can’t manage much more than that. He rarely ever can, once Merrill gets that low, wondrous tone in her voice, and starts talking about normal things in terms of poetry and colors. Her Keeper Voice, he calls it.

When he was younger, back—before, her Keeper Voice used to make him wish he were an elf too. Even now, he feels the same old pang hit between his ribs.

From behind him Carver hears a groan, and he turns to see Garrett sucking in his belly and squeezing past the crack in the stone. He holds out his hand, but his brother waves it away. After a few more moments of undignified struggle, Garrett pops out of the crack like a crushed berry.

“Maker,” he sighs, re-arranging his robes across his chest and hips. “I swear they used to make caves bigger.”

Carver considers it an undeserved act of brotherly kindness that he lets that comment go unremarked.

Soundlessly, Tallis slips through the crack. She squints at the sun disapprovingly, then sticks her thumb out and measures the horizon. “Looks like the Ruins are this way,” she says, cocking her head up the mountain.

“Lead on,” says Garrett.

He grips his staff like a walking stick and jauntily strides up the dirt trail. He seems to be in much better spirits now that they’re out of the cave, and Carver, for once, can’t find much disagree with him about. It all seemed so fraught and important back in the caves, but now that they’re here, back in the hunting grounds, surrounded by sun and birdsong and no suffocating cavern walls, Carver feels like they’ve all travelled back to an easier, simpler time. Even the moral morass of assisting known religious fanatics seems less dire out here in the crisp mountain air.

But they haven’t travelled very far up the path when suddenly, a rustling shakes the bushes in the clearing ahead.

“Wyverns?” Merrill mouths.

Carver hopes so—after the night he’s had, he’s ready to fight a good old-fashioned beast again, something with snarling fangs, that wants only to eat or be eaten.

But Garrett shakes his head and signals for them to hold position.

Several men appear before them from the trees. They wear brightly-colored armor that glints distractingly in the morning light. On their heads are strange silver, octopus-shaped helmets that hide most of their faces. They look familiar, although Carver is sure he didn’t see them at the masquerade.

A greasy Orlesian in chevalier dress saunters down the trail. His pigeon-like features are twisted into a sneer.

“I knew you were a worthless traitor the moment I laid eyes on you,” he says.

“Baron Arlange,” says Garrett, bending into a mock bow. “How nice to see you again.”

“Who is this guy again?” Carver whispers to Merrill. She shrugs.

Arlange notices their gesturing back and forth, and his face purples. “You filthy turnips,” he snarls. “You humiliated me!”

“Can you be more specific?” Carver calls out. “We humiliate a lot of people.”

Garrett snickers appreciatively, and even Tallis cracks a smile.

“Don’t tease the nobles, Carver,” Garrett chides, flashing teeth. “They might try to nip your fingers.”

The Baron lets loose a mad roar, and rushes the party. The four of them make quick work of him and his men, and the longer the fighting continues, the lighter Carver feels—this is easy, this is good, this is how a hunt is meant to be; after all, there is no moral quandary in putting a rabid beast out of its misery.

“He was persistent, I’ll give him that much,” says Tallis after the battle.

“So were the ghastlings,” Garrett returns, and they share their first smile in hours.

Garrett kneels down and begins to rifle through Arlange’s equipment. “Wyvern crap, all of it,” he sighs. “Hey, Carver, you want an Orlesian battle shield?”

Carver smirks. “I’d rather use my face as a battering ram.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t,” says Merrill gravely. “Your face is too nice for that.”

Both Tallis and Garrett chuckle, but Carver also catches his brother’s knowing smirk, even as he turns his face back to Arlange’s corpse. Carver flushes and desperately wishes he could make that crack about Garrett’s belly now, but he’s not cruel—and besides, they’re too far from the cave entrance for it to make much sense anyway.


	52. Masks XXV: A Hawke Heart-to-Heart

When Garrett hangs back and motions for Merrill to walk ahead with Tallis, Carver feels like he is eight again, and Father’s about to scold him for pulling Bethany’s pigtails.

“So,” Garrett says, eyes on Tallis and Merrill as they quickly grow smaller up the path. He presses his thumbs into the belt of his robes.

“So?” Carver rolls his eyes. Whatever it is, he might as well get it over with.

“The Merrill thing,” Garrett leans toward him conspiratorially. “ _That’s_ still going on.”

Oh _balls._

Carver snaps his gaze toward his brother, a thousand venomous insults on the tip of his tongue, but something in the way the morning light catches along the silver in his beard and on the grey embroidery trimming his fraying sleeve makes Garrett look, once again, like the ghost of Father. And given the night he’s had, Carver thinks with an ache, maybe he wouldn’t mind walking awhile with someone who looked like that—even if the resemblance only went skin deep.

“Yes,” he says, letting some of the tension in his shoulders deflate. “That’s still going on.”

Garrett has the decency not to smirk or grin or allow any other treacherous quirk of his mouth. In fact, he looks grave, old, his thick beard not quite hiding the lines around his mouth or the sag in his cheeks.

“I thought you’d moved on, found someone else,” Garrett says quietly. “Mother talks about you two all the time.”

“Well,” Carver says with an awkward chuckle halfway between pride and embarrassment, “we both know it’s because I’m her only hope for grandchildren.” He means the Anders thing, of course, but half of him doesn’t; half of him is acknowledging that darker part of his brother, the hard part that luxury has made soft and formless—the part Garrett can’t hide from Carver, no matter how much he tries to mask it. Idly, Carver wonders if, when that softness is re-forged, he’ll even like the man Garrett shapes into.

His brother merely shrugs.

“Yeah, well. Just—“ He turns to Carver, no hint of humor or condescension evident on his face, just deep lines and downturned eyes. “Just be careful.”

Carver sighs. “Yes, Garrett, I know. I’m a Templar, she’s a blood mage.”

“No, no, that’s not it—although it does sound a bit like one of Varric’s stories,” he says. Briefly, the usual smirk flutters across his face, although it vanishes before Carver can get angry over it. “It’s just that…Merrill is—”

Garrett furrows his brow, his gaze drifting to the ground. He twists his thumbs in his belt and drums his fingers along his hips, tapping out a staccato, meandering rhythm. Is Garrett actually— _fumbling_ for words?

At length he clears his throat. “I worry about her, that’s all. She’s gotten a little… _intense_ since you’ve been gone. First it was the take-back-the-alienage thing, but after the riots—well, now I’m not sure _what_ it is.”

Carver has the sudden urge to do a cartwheel or his special bad-dream jig, the one he used to do for Bethany, just to get Garrett to smile again.

“She spends all her time in my library,” Garrett says softly, “or getting lost into other people’s libraries—You know, just before we came here, Aveline found her in the Viscount’s garden.”

“She likes flowers,” Carver says, and tries not to sound too defensive.

“At midnight?” Garrett looks at him as if he’s stupid. “Carver, the garden is right outside the evidence lockers. Where the guard keeps the dangerous artifacts, weapons—and the confiscated spell books. Now she has two warrants out for her arrest, and Aveline’s running out of excuses.”

Carver frowns. He remembers how, back in the barracks, Merrill’s eye was drawn at once to the books – first Varric’s serials, then to the evidence cabinets, where books could have been stacked behind lock and key. He sees her hungry half-smile, which, foolishly, he’d thought was all for him. “What are you getting at, Garrett?”

“It’s just that she’s working on something, something big, and she’s not telling me, or even Varric, what it is. And given that the last thing she kept secret from us ended up in a riot and a house call from your friends…“

Garrett sighs in frustration, draws his hand across his beard, and Carver feels a pang between his ribs, a pang for Lothering, and family, and home. “Look, Merrill may seem sweet and innocent, but behind that mask there’s—a _hardness_ to her. No, a fire. I just don’t want you getting burned.”

“Garrett.” Carver chuckles drily. “You’re sleeping with a known abomination—“

“Not yet, I’m not,” Garrett interrupts, frowning. “He’s being a right pain in the ass about that.”

“Details.” Carver shrugs. “Point is, your advice goes both ways.”

Carver expects his brother to bristle at his words, or at least get defensive. But if possible, Garrett just deflates a little bit more.

“I know, Carver, I know.” Weakly, he smiles at Carver. “We Hawke men sure have a type, don’t we?”

Carver laughs, and the sound startles his brother. “You know it’s only because Bethany isn’t around to keep us in line.”

Garrett’s smile deepens, and he looks younger by the second. “She would have liked Merrill.”

“No, she wouldn’t have,” Carver chuckles. “Anders, though, she would have adored him, I’m sure of it.”

“She did always have a thing for healers.”

Carver smiles. “And blondes.”


	53. Masks XXVI: Reclaiming What's Lost

They wend their way up a giant staircase cut into the mountain, ancient carven whorls still visible in the broken marble. “These ruins,” says Carver with wonder, “they’re so old. They can’t all date back to just the Fourth Blight.”

“They don’t,” says Merrill. She points to one of the designs. “That’s ancient elven, I think.”

“You think?” He smiles, but she doesn’t seem to think what she said was funny at all, so he adds, “I thought you knew everything there was to know about old elven stuff.”

“I do,” she says defensively. “But we’ve lost so much about who we once were. We don’t even know what the elves of Arlathan wore, or what they had for dinner.” She sighs sadly. “So much of the world could have once been ours, and we’d never even know it.”

Carver wants to comfort her, but something about what she said unsettles him. He’d always assumed it would be a good thing if elves remembered more of their history, but what if the old elves were conquerors and enslavers as well? What if they too built their empire on the backs of others, and carved out their path to power in blood and chains, just as the Tevinters or the Orlesians did?

Carver has the sudden image of brightly-dressed Keepers gathered at Chateau Haine to celebrate their own magnificence, forcing human slaves to chase after beasts while they lounge at the estate, drinking poison wine and wearing their trophies’ skins as ball-gowns.

A shout breaks Carver from his reverie.

On the staircase before them appears a small scouting party of Tal-Vashoth. Before Carver can even unsling his greatsword, however, Tallis sprints ahead of him, daggers flashing in the early morning sun.

As they make short work of the scouts, Tallis surges across the clearing like a whirlwind. She is a creature of black smoke and steel, disappearing and reappearing to knife a grey beast in the back, or to slash across its tattooed stomach, spilling its entrails to the ground. Grim-faced, relentless, she fights like a woman possessed – indeed, in the brittle set of her jaw, the way she licks the blood off of her lips, Tallis begins to remind Carver a little of Anders.

Back in the dungeons, when Garrett first told him who Tallis was, Carver struggled to see how such a cocky, fumbling elf could ever be one of _them_ , a brutal religious fanatic. But now—now he has no such trouble.

She finds a kossith up on a ledge and pins him against a tree. He starts to speak, to beg, but she slashes his throat before he can.

“Tal-Vashoth,” Tallis calls out, and wipes her mouth as if she has spit something foul. “Like Salit, but for sale. He must be close.”

She sprints up the giant staircase.

“Wait, Tallis, wait,” says Merrill as they chase after her. “Creators, how does she run so fast in shoes?”

Up the path, more Qunari pour onto trail. A loud voice rumbles like a thunderclap. “Teth a! Meravas!”

“Take the leader alive,” Tallis shouts.

Carver looks over to his brother, who looks similarly nonplussed. In nearly 22 years, Carver has never heard anyone give Garrett a direct order—nobody but Father, that is. Even Athenril pretended she was merely giving assignments, not commands.

But Tallis doesn’t seem to care. She doesn’t seem to care about anything anymore; cold, expressionless, she is like the stone beneath their feet. It’s as if all this time she was wearing merely the mask of an elf, one that has now fallen away to reveal only porcelain underneath.

She does not wait for the others before hurling herself into combat. She carves, she dices, she grunts, she stabs. By the time Carver has engaged, three bodies lay at her feet.

Body after body after body falls, until none are left standing. The clearing is littered with Qunari whose skin resembles tattered sails, or slashed curtains.

“Maker,” Carver whispers, sheathing his blade. “She’s a demon.”

“Varric ought to write a story about _her_ ,” Merrill says in awe.

Tallis saunters up to one of the fallen grey beasts. Although he still breathes, he is near death, his skin blue and spattered in entrails, some of which are his own.

She kneels, grey eyes glittering.

“Ataas shokra, Ben-Hassrath,” it gags.

“Ebala maraas, Ben’dar Salit-asit?” Carver hasn’t the faintest what she’s saying, but it sounds beautiful, and evil, and maybe even a little sad.

“Sataareth barek. Alat kafir a’bas.”

“Ataasra val. Panahedan.” And she slices his throat. Some of the creature’s blood splashes on her cheeks. She does not bother to wipe it.

She stands, bronze hair glinting, and Carver thinks, briefly, of the Gallows slave and overseer statues.

“Salit is already here,” she says. “He’s meeting with the duke at the base of the mountain.”

“Then we’re going the wrong way,” says Garrett.

“It wasn’t my fault this time,” Merrill adds.

“We need to get down there before it’s too late,” says Tallis, and she runs down the path without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s hard to decipher what Tallis and the Tal-Vashoth leader say to each other, as the Qunari dictionary on the wiki isn’t as extensive as the Elven one is. But here’s as best as I can manage:
> 
> “You fight well, Ben-Hassrath.” (“glory” + “ to struggle against” + “ben-hassrath”)
> 
> “It’s nothing, just the way Salit taught me, right?” (“form of to be” + “nothing or alone”, “heart” + ? + “Salit” + “the way, or a form of it is” as in “asit tal’eb”, it is to be)
> 
> I have no idea what next line is, but I think, in context, it could be something like, “You think you’re upholding the Qun, but you’ll always be an outsider.” (“enforcer” + ?. ? + ? + ? + “foreign thing”)
> 
> Again, she uses forms of words that aren’t in the dictionary, but it could be something like “In that way lies glory. Farewell.” (“form of glory” + “form of to lie, as in a path”. “respectful goodbye”)


	54. Masks XXVII: That's Our Cue

Tallis holds up her hand, and irritation flashes across Garrett’s face.

“Listen,” she mouths.

From over the ledge floats voices. Carver peeks over. Two groups, one of Prosper and his peacock-colored guards and the other of kossith, one dressed in knotted blue netting, face each other on the stone outcropping. It’s at least a fifteen, twenty foot drop.

“I am here to facilitate your deal with the empress,” drawls Prosper. “Nothing more.”

“Sounds like our cue,” whispers Garrett.

Tallis nods once before hurling herself over the side of the overhang.

“Maker, I wish she would stop doing that,” Garrett sighs.

“She’s not exactly a team player, is she?” Carver says sympathetically.

“Shush, look,” whispers Merrill, flapping her hand. “He’s handing over something. A—scroll?”

“Names, your Grace,” says the guard, his surprise evident, even from so far away. “It’s a list of names.”

“Oh, that can’t be good,” Merrill murmurs.

“Ah, now _that_ sounds like our cue,” says Garrett.

He motions Carver and Merrill to follow him. As silently as they can, the three creep along the path, but Carver’s armor squeals treacherously.

“You need to oil your armor more, Tincan,” says Garrett with a frown.

“It’s not designed for stealth,” Carver mutters. But he tries to swing his arms less regardless.

Still, they’re barely within sight of Prosper and Salit before a guard hears their approach.

“Your Grace,” the man shouts.

Prosper turns. “Champion,” he sneers. “I should have known you would turn up.”

He thrusts the scroll into a guard’s hand and stalks over to Garrett, who just stands there, staff undrawn, lips curled into an arrogant smirk. With every step that brings Prosper closer, Garrett’s smile calcifies, his jaw hardening until it is like stone. His brother no longer looks like a flabby noble, Carver thinks – not even like the dirty, starving thug in Athenril’s employ—but like a great oak tree of a man, substantial and unmovable.

“I have an excellent sense of dramatic timing,” he says, tossing his head back. “And good hair.”

Prosper’s eyes narrow. “Joke while you can. You will not find it funny for long.”

But then a grunt and the wet slice of blade on skin draws everyone’s attention. Carver turns just in time to see the guard who was holding the scroll drop to the ground. Before the parchment can even hit the cobblestones, however, Tallis grabs it. She throws a flask to the ground that belches black smoke when it breaks, and she leaps away, back up to the ledge where Garrett, Carver and Merrill had once been sitting.

She says something too low to hear, and when nobody answers, she casts a panicked glance around her. Then she spots the three of them on the outcropping below. She throws up her hands in clear irritation.

“Tallis,” the Qunari in the blue netting yells up to her.

“I said I would stop you, Salit,” she shouts back.

“And I said I would slay you if you tried,” Salit rumbles.

“If anyone is to do any slaying,” says Prosper, cocking a strange crossbow like device and aiming it at the kossith, “it will be me.”

He shoots Salit in the shoulder with a noxious green substance that immediately begins to bubble and pop. The smell of it is familiar, and stings Carver’s nose and shoulder. _Wyvern poison_ , he realizes. It must be burning away the kossith’s flesh—it must be utter agony, Carver knows; but Salit just stands there, not flinching, not screaming, not betraying even so much as a wince.

A great roar comes from above, and before Carver can even find the source, a massive and ugly wyvern slides down the ruin. It pounces on the stone outcropping and, in a swift motion, snatches up Salit with its yellow fangs and shakes him like a mabari with a rag toy.

Now the kossith screams—screams and screams, until he stops.

“Kill them all!” shouts Prosper.

Chaos erupts: flashing blades, clanging steel, barked commands, the tingle-tang of magic crackling through the air. Carver unslings his sword and brings it up just in time to block a heavy blow from one of Prosper’s guards. With the pommel of his blade, Carver bashes the man in his porcelain mask, cracking it open with a spray of blood. The guard drops heavily to the stone.

“You should never have come here, Fereldan,” Prosper shouts.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Carver mutters.

He slashes at a guard who is about to kick Tallis in the back. She whirls about without so much as a thank you, and engages one of the Qunari, just as a blast of fire catches it in the neck.

“You were supposed to stay where you were!” she shouts.

“Next time you should say so,” Garrett yells back, slamming the butt of his staff into the ground. The battlefield erupts in flame, and Carver’s opponent screams in pain. “You really need to work on your battle strategy.”

“Well—I—“ She pirouettes and stabs the kossith in the thigh. “Fine. Use _ice,_ not fire,” she shouts.

“Ooh, yes, just like that,” chirps Merrill, tossing a lightning bolt at Prosper.

“And not lightning either,” Tallis yells.

Carver slices at his foe, who finally drops. He then sprints toward the duke, who merely stands there, grinning viciously. Behind Carver, the wyvern roars.

Carver whips about, casting a worried glance behind him. Nothing.

“Pardon Leopold. My pet has such poor manners,” the duke says in mock apology. Then he throws a flask of the same substance Tallis tossed earlier, and disappears.

As Carver scans the battlefield, searching for the vanished duke, he notices the wyvern crawling about on the face of the stone ruin above them. It is big and lithe and quick, like the cockroaches on the walls of Gamlen’s shack.

Across the outcropping, Prosper reappears. Carver and Tallis chase after him, but as soon as they near, he vanishes again.

“Stay still, dammit,” Carver grits.

“It’s hissra-qamek,” she hisses. “Illusion gas.”

“Bloody annoying, is what it is,” he mutters.

“To me, Leopold!” cries Prosper. Carver turns toward the voice. The duke is just behind Merrill. Carver’s stomach sinks.

“Oh, that can’t be good,” says Tallis.

“No, we’ve already hit that cue,” says Carver, already rushing toward Merrill.


	55. Masks XXVIII: Listen to My Hands

Merrill, caught in the sweep of a spell combination, doesn’t appear to notice the duke suddenly materialize behind her. But as the duke raises his crossbow to shoot her in the head—and Carver, heart seizing, is still too far away—she whirls about, casual and graceful, and bashes Prosper in the stomach with her staff.

“I’m busy, your Grace,” she says. “Don’t interrupt.”

The duke rights himself. Scowling, he throws another flask and disappears just as Carver slashes his greatsword right where the duke’s helmet once was.

“Shifty bugger,” he mutters.

“Get them, Leopold!” shouts Prosper from somewhere high up. Carver looks in the direction of the voice; the duke now stands on the overhang where Carver and the rest so shortly ago hid. “Leopold?”

The duke’s wyvern does not jump down from the stone ruin so much as fall off of it. He collides heavily with the cobblestones, and stands still for a moment, woozy and weak.

“He’s sluggish today, it seems,” the duke cries, sounding almost apologetic about it. “Blasted creature.”

Leopold vomits once, the foul-smelling bile burning a hole in the cobblestones.

“Maybe it was all that Anderfellian cheese,” Garrett shouts back.

Carver dashes across the outcropping and hurls himself at the beast, trying to slice at the creature’s underbelly. But as sickly as he is, the wyvern still bats away Carver’s sword easily, as if he were merely an irritating insect.

Leopold paws the ground and slowly, sleepily, stalks toward Carver. He slashes at Leopold’s wings, his dripping fangs, his bright skin flaps, anywhere he can. But the sword merely deflects off the wyvern’s tough plate.

That doesn’t matter, Carver knows. As usual, he is merely the distraction, the support staff. Garrett and Merrill are doing the real damage, hurling fire and lightning toward the creature’s belly, landing spell after spell; even Tallis’s daggers are connecting with the soft underflesh. Carver knows and doesn’t care. Because when he was a boy, he dreamt of becoming a knight and facing down a dragon, perhaps on a ruined parapet somewhere, sword flashing, the sun glinting off Cailan’s standard on his burnished armor—and this might as well be the same thing.

Leopold suddenly twirls, whipping its tail around and catching Carver square in the stomach. He flies back several feet, grunting, landing near Merrill’s feet. His sword clatters several feet away.

Before Carver can regain his footing, the wyvern spits at him. A noxious green puddle lands where he once lay, and a hissing gob connects with Merrill’s neck and shoulder.

She screams.

“Merrill!” Carver leaps to his feet, grabs her as she collapses.

Panicked, Carver smears away as much of the poison as he can with the back of his gauntlet. The goop sizzles along her flesh, but the bulk of it seems to have missed her bare skin – thank the Maker for curiously modest Dalish dress. Still, a large amount – much larger than his dose from the poison-tipped arrow from before –connected with the flesh along her neck, and her eyes have already rolled back into her head.

“Tamlen!” Merrill yells, her spine twisting at painful angles, the whites of her eyes stark against her vallaslin. Her nails scrabble against Carver’s shining armor. “Tamlen!”

“Carver, what are you doing?” Garrett shrieks from far away. He grunts loudly. “Get over here and help us!”

“Sorry to leave you like this, Merrill,” he murmurs, laying her gently on the ground. “But your wyvern’s trying to eat the neighbors.”

With his gauntlet, he smears the green goo across the flaming sword on his chestplate, where it sizzles and makes a foul stink, like the breath of a hurlock.

Carver dashes across the outcropping and picks up his fallen sword, where it had clattered against the ruined stone arch. The motion attracts Leopold’s notice. _Good._

Carver shouts wordlessly, waving his arms in the air a little.

For a moment, Leopold looks confused, head swerving between him and the spasming Merrill, and Carver isn’t sure his distraction worked. But the wyvern then lowers its head and charges Carver.

At the last second, he leaps out of the way, and the wyvern connects heavily with the stone wall. Shaking its head, the creature roars in frustration.

The duke somersaults off the ledge, and down onto Leopold’s back.

“No more games,” Prosper shouts. “It is time.”

Carver spares a quick glance at Merrill. Her body is covered in sparks—spirit lightning, perhaps, tossed at an unseen foe. She holds one shaking, clawed hand into the air.

Then wyvern and rider charge across the battlefield. Garrett and Tallis hurl themselves out of the way, and Carver runs over to the beast, sword flashing.

He notices small flaming piles—flasks, perhaps?—as he nears the wyvern. But Carver doesn’t have time to think about what the implications are, because now a wave of guard reinforcements has appeared in the archway.

“Handle the lizard,” Garrett cries. He raises his hands and crafts a gravity well under the arch.

Carver nods, but suddenly the wyvern is gone.

One by one the flasks – charges – detonate. Caught in Garrett’s gravity well, the guards burn alive, screeching.

Amid the smoke and chaos, Leopold leaps back down onto the battlefield. Its hungry eyes fix on Carver.

Carver looks behind him—nothing, just open air, and mountain.

The wyvern hocks another gob of poison directly onto Carver’s breastplate. A few droplets splash onto his face. It stings, but not as badly as before. Carver tries to swipe it off with his thumb, but only manages to smear it a little, a thin green smudge curling down over the ridge of his nose.

“Charge,” Prosper shouts.

Carver smirks. “Come and get it, ugly.”

Carver stands his ground and the beast charges him. Faster, faster it comes, the ground trembling, nostrils snorting, claws tearing at the stones like the tromp of darkspawn boots at Ostagar.

At the last second, Carver rolls out of the way. He keep his sword aloft, however, and the blade slices a long gash into Leopold’s stomach. Not quite a killing blow – barely even a prick, really – but the creature roars in surprise and loses its footing.

Claws scrabbling against the treacherous stone, the wyvern flies over the side of the stone outcropping. It wails, and faint thuds can be heard below.

Carver peers over the ledge. Leopold is gone, but the duke still clings to a rock.

“How are you even still there?” Carver wonders. “Are you part barnacle?”

“Keep away from me,” grits the Duke.

Carver hears Merrill shout. As Garrett and Tallis saunter over to the outcropping, he sprints back across the cobblestones to Merrill’s side.

Her spine has formed an arch against the ground. He drops his sword and slides to his knees.

“Hey, Merrill, Merrill—“ He pats her cheeks a little, trying to get her eyes to focus. It doesn’t work.

“Hiii-brisssh,” she slurs. Gently he brushes the sweat-plastered hair away from her forehead. “Helllll mmm. Hiiii-brishhh.”

He can hear talking in the background, Garrett and Tallis and the duke—but best to let them sort it all out; after all, he was always just support staff, the soldier, the knight-protector. Best to leave the strategy and the one-liners to someone quicker on his—or her –feet than he.

Foam dribbles out of Merrill’s mouth. She tries to talk, to move, but instead she merely seizes, her entire spine twisting and convulsing, like a rag being wrung out. Her hands burn again with arcane sparks, and before she can electrocute him, he mutters a quick prayer and Silences her.

“Cah—carrr,” she stutters. Eyes sightless, she scrabbles against the stone with clawed hands. He wonders what horrors she now sees. Are there kinsmen whose death she cannot stop? Is she reliving the exile from her clan? Is there a demon now tempting her too?

“Ssh, it’ll be over soon,” he says, wiping the drool from her lips. “Remember? It’s not so bad.”

She screams in agony.

“Okay, yes it is,” he whispers, bringing his lips to her forehead, pressing them against the fevered flesh. “Just focus on me. On my voice. You talked me through mine. I can talk you through yours.”

Under him, she screeches and contorts, and for a moment, he loses the ability to think, to breathe.

“Okay, remember when we were dancing?” he murmurs unsteadily. He wipes the sweat away from her brow. “Just one-two-three—listen to my hands, remember?”

He grabs her hands. Then he looks down at them—they’re so small against the dirty and singed metal of his gauntlets. He frowns. In a smooth motion, he yanks off his gloves and once again takes her hands in his. Her fingers are hot, rigid, nails like tiny daggers against his clammy, calloused palms.

“Listen to my hands.” He squeezes her hands, rubs his thumb along the knuckles, tries to ignore how his own hands shake. “Listen.”

“Cahhh,” she mumbles, more drool bubbling down her chin.

“Just listen to them, Merrill.” he whispers. “Let them do the talking, the leading, not whatever you’re seeing. Just let them say everything. Everything I’m too stupid to say, or too scared to.” He swallows. He doesn’t even know what’s coming out of his mouth anymore, only knows that he needs to keep talking, just keep talking. “Oh, Merrill. Merrill, I cock everything up, I know it, as soon as I open my big mouth, out comes something dumb or awkward, and I never know the right thing to say, ever, especially not when you’re around. But my hands, my hands at least know what they’re doing.” He squeezes her stilled fingers again. “My hands won’t ever say the wrong thing to you, Merrill. They would never lead you astray, or let you go it alone. Just listen to them, not me. Trust them. Please.”

His hands bring hers to his lips. Gently, he kisses the staff callouses on her thumbs.

“Listen,” he begs.

Vaguely he’s aware of Garrett coming up behind him. Carver does not look away from Merrill’s form. She hasn’t spasmed in several seconds, which he takes as a good sign.

“Is she okay?” he says gravely.

“She’s coming out of it, I think,” Carver mutters.

“What happened?”

“Hallucinations. From the poison.” Carver blinks, and it feels like the first time he has done so in several minutes. “I caught some of it earlier. She’ll be alright, once the effects wear off.”

Her hand twitches—no, _stirs_ —in his.

“Speaking of which,” says Carver. He takes both her hands in one of his and lays them against his cheek. He brushes his other hand along her forehead. “Merrill, Merrill, time to open your eyes.”

She does. Brilliant, green, beautiful. Fixed on him, only for him.

She grins weakly.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” she whispers, voice hoarse and low. “Did—“ She coughs and tries to sit up, and Carver drops her hands, helps her up. “Did we win?”

“Of course we did,” says Garrett. His brother kneels by Merrill’s side, and touches his hand to her knee; only then does she break her gaze from Carver.

“Where’s the duke?” She coughs again.

“Well, it looks like the duke—“ Garrett grins, a brittle thing that shows far too much teeth, “—has fallen from grace.”


	56. Masks XXIX: The Scroll

Carver helps Merrill stand. She leans into him, awkward and stiff, her hands still clenching every now and again from the aftershocks of the poison. Even once she finds her balance, she does not let go of his forearm; instead she clutches the soft underpadding like a drowning man to a life raft.

Each spasm makes Carver’s heartbeat skid against his ribcage, and he keeps his hand hooked around her waist as well—for extra support, of course. After all, Carver is nothing if not a pillar in human form.

As Merrill sluggishly comes back to herself, Carver too begins to remember other things: that he is on a mountaintop in Orlais, for instance, and that he is covered in wyvern spit and Qunari blood. That there should be another person at Merrill’s side besides him and his brother. An elf. A Qunari.

Both he and Garrett look about for Tallis, but Garrett sights her first.

She kneels by one of Prosper’s guards. The still-sizzling corpse is twisted into strange angles by the ravage of poison and wyvern claws. She rifles through its pockets, searching for something.

Arms crossed, brow furrowed, Garrett levies the full force of his disapproving glare on Tallis’s turned back. But incredibly, impertinently, she does not seem to notice.

“You know,” he calls out at length, peering at her as if she might vanish into thin air. “The whole lone wolf thing works much better when you’re _actually_ alone.”

She shrugs without turning around. “Ben-Hassrath don’t work in packs,” she says airily.

Garrett narrows his eyes, and Carver doesn’t know if his brother is more annoyed at Tallis’s poor conversation or at being ignored. “It’s just amazing we aren’t all dead right now, due to your terrible sense of theatrics.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t know there was room for only one drama queen in Orlais,” she says, and Garrett frowns, redirecting his frustrated glare toward the trees.

Tallis mutters something in Qunari, then quickly shuts the corpse’s eyes.

“If the duke only knew what he nearly had in his grasp,” she says, standing at last. Her voice is careful, guarded, and when she finally turns to face the three of them, Carver no longer sees the bumbling, wise-cracking elf from last night, draped in her gaudy Orlesian finery; but a warrior, dangerous and cold.

“Thank you,” she says, and Carver suppresses a shiver. “There’s no way I could have done this without your help.”

Garrett clears his throat instead of smiling. “So. What _is_ the scroll?”

“This—“ She pauses, considering her next words carefully. “—is a list of agents throughout Thedas. Qunari, like myself.”

Carver’s sharp intake of breath draws stares from all three of them, but he doesn’t care, not after all this. He is still on a mission, even a horribly botched one, and surely the Knight-Commander would accept a list of known double agents as appropriate apology for killing an Orlesian duke.

“Nice Diamondback face,” Garrett mutters.

“Nevermind me,” Carver whispers back. “You grab her legs, I’ll get her arms.”

Eyes narrowing to slits, Tallis slides the scroll into her hip pouch.

“Many of them have children, families, friends,” she says pointedly, hovering her hands on her hips, within easy range of her miasmic flasks and explosive powders. Her gaze flicks to Carver’s broadsword, to Merrill still leaning heavily on his arm, and she looks, briefly, sad. “They’re people you wouldn’t suspect. Some have even left the Qun behind. But if this list fell into human hands, they and everyone they know—”

“—would be killed,” finishes Garrett. He sighs, the lines on his face starker than ever.

Tallis nods. “The Ariqun believes they knew the risks, but what about the innocents? I—I couldn’t let that happen.”

“But maybe those agents _should_ be discovered,” Carver breaks in. He doesn’t like the sympathetic look on Garrett’s face, or the way the tension has sagged out of his brother’s shoulders.

“I believe in the Qun, but I am not doing this to protect the Qunari,” Tallis says quickly. “The list doesn’t distinguish innocent from guilty, it doesn’t show the friends, lovers, children who—“

She breaks off, stares at the scroll in her hand as if she could, by gaze alone, ignite it.

“Nobody should have it,” she says through clenched teeth.

“So what now?” says Garrett with forced lightness. He leans back on his heels. “You aren’t just going to leave, are you?”

She chuckles, and the sound echoes harshly in the stone outcropping. “Really. You think I would fit into your merry entourage?”

Merrill says nothing, but her fingernails momentarily dig into the soft part of Carver’s forearm, little sharp points pressed against his exposed flesh.

Tallis smiles, or winces; Carver can’t decide which it is. “Maybe some other time, Hawke,” she says wistfully. ”I still have a few things to do. But I am grateful. I want you to know that.”

“That’s what I do,” sighs Garrett wearily. “Feed the sick, cure the poor, pat the hungry on the head.”

“Kill nasty Orlesians,” she adds.

Garrett smiles sadly. “Are there any other kind?”

The two gaze at each other for a long moment. Then Tallis removes something from her back pocket.

“Before I forget—“ In her hands is a large ruby, nearly the size of Carver’s fist. She tosses it to Garrett. “That was going to be the Heart of the Many. You’d find a jewel, while I’d go off and find Salit—and be back before anyone was the wiser. But I suppose nothing ever goes as we plan, does it?”

“This is nothing.” Garrett’s mouth quirks. “You should hear about my Deep Roads expedition.”

“Wish I could,” she says, already sauntering back up the mountain path. “Take care of yourself Hawke. Maybe we’ll meet again sometime.”

“Wait, no—“ Carver starts to follow her, but Merrill’s weight keeps him in place. “We’re—we’re just going to let her leave? Just walk away? Are you mad?”

“She’s—traitor,” Merrill croaks in agreement.

“No. Just let her go,” says Garrett firmly. “It’s not worth it anymore.”

“But—“

“Carver, stop,” he says in his Older Brother voice. “I just want to go home.”

Garrett’s face becomes an impenetrable mask, like painted porcelain, changeless and cold.


	57. Masks XXX: Goodbyes

Garrett and Carver stand at the gangplank of the _S.S. White Spire_ , watching luggage and supplies be carried into the hold by strong men with good backs and Fereldan accents. The whole place stinks of fish and soot and stale spit.

“Thinking of the sailor’s life, Carver?” Garrett rubs his earlobe thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger. Carver notes the split cuticles, the thumb callouses, the fingers perpetually stained with elfroot. With such obvious tells, thinks Carver, it’s a wonder the Templars had never caught the Hawkes all those years. Maybe if the Order got its head out of its phylacteries, fewer apostates would slip through the cracks. “It’s a tough calling, though I daresay you have the dumb, brute strength for it.”

“Remember three years ago when that dockhand offered me a job?” Carver smiles wickedly. “He didn’t offer _you_ a job.”

Garrett smiles and shakes his head. “As if I needed more wenches.”

“Or more hardtack.”

Garrett grins broadly. Sometimes back in Lothering, when his brother was feeling charitable, he’d smile like that at one of Carver’s jokes, and it was as close to a pat on the back he’d ever get from his older sibling.

But then the smile dissolves.

“Don’t go back,” Garrett says suddenly.

“What?” To hide his surprise, Carver chuckles, but the sound comes out more like a mabari huff. “And become a deserter?”

“That’s such a loaded term.”

Garrett means it as a joke, Carver knows, but hearing that _other_ man’s words coming out of his brother’s mouth only serves to remind Carver why he _must_ go back.

“I swore an oath,” he says simply.

Garrett’s shoulders go rigid, and he squints at his brother as if Carver were very far away. “What about the oath you swore to protect this family?”

Carver’s cheeks prickle and burn. Briefly he considers Silencing his brother. “I swore no oath to do that.”

“Good thing for you, then,” snarls Garrett.

“Don’t,” Carver hisses. He turns to face his brother head on, as if he were a charging wyvern. “Don’t presume to tell me my bloody duty, either to you or to my country.”

But then he stops, takes a deep breath, clenches his fists to keep them from shaking. _Just like Lothering indeed,_ thinks Carver. “Nevermind. It’s my burden to bear. I don’t expect you to understand.”

Garrett rolls his eyes. “You’re such a martyr, little brother.” Garrett’s eyes flick to something behind Carver’s head, and then back to Carver. He smirks. “On second thought, I take it back. The Order’s _perfect_ for you.”

Without a word, he walks up the gangplank and into the boat.

Carver’s about to shout after him, when he hears behind him a scuffle and a gasp. “Carver!”

“Merrill?” He turns around. There she is, doubled over, hands on knees, slightly disheveled and panting. “I—I thought you were already on the boat.” _So we didn’t have to say goodbye,_ he silently adds.

“I went up and down looking for your boat,” she pants sheepishly. “But all of them look alike. And it was hard to see over all the hats and luggage.”

He blushes, his annoyance quite forgotten. “You were looking for me?”

“Yes, I wanted to wish you fair voyage.” She takes something out of her side pouch, something small and shiny. She shoves it toward him. “And to give you this.”

“My-my mask,” he murmurs, rubbing a finger along the burnished edge. “I thought I’d left it at the Chateau.”

“I couldn’t—you looked—I mean.” Her cheeks darkening even more, she clears her throat. “That is, since you don’t wear a helmet, I thought it could protect your face.”

He chuckles softly, the sound rasping like the twirl of a dancer’s gown.

“Keep it,” he says. “I don’t need it anymore.”

“But it’s yours.”

“You liked it, didn’t you?” He pushes the mask back toward her; the metal feels warm and familiar under his fingertips. “Now you have something to remember me by.”

“As if I could forget,” she murmurs, her eyes still on the mask as she puts it back in her pouch. Her eyes linger on his chest, where the flaming sword emblem would be, if he weren’t wearing plain clothes for the sea journey. “Carver, I probably won’t see you again for a while. But it was nice walking and talking again with you while it lasted. Really nice.”

“It was.”

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” She’s close enough now that he reaches out and takes her hand. Their fingers intertwine awkwardly, all angles and broken lines, too hot, a poor fit. But she curls her fingers against his anyway. He swallows hard. “You know, you could always come visit me in the Gallows.”

She laughs, and swipes at her eyes with the heel of her other palm. “The Gallows? Isn’t that the last place I should be found?”

“Pssh, they’d never suspect a thing. A blood mage willingly walks into the Gallows? Sounds like one of Gamlen’s jokes.” Carver rubs his thumb along her knuckles. He wishes she’d look at him. “It’s not so bad—we have courtyards, and gardens, and—“ Carver has a sudden flash of inspiration, “—and _libraries._ ”

The word has the intended effect: Merrill finally brings her gaze to his, her eyes wide and shining, like shards of a broken mirror, or the still waters hidden underneath a mountain. “Libraries,” she murmurs, her lips barely moving. “Well, and _you_ , of course.”

Carver gulps. “Of course.”

Merrill frowns. “You look uncomfortable. Did I say something wrong again?”

“No.” He tries to shrug casually, but it feels more like a wince. “No, I’m alright.”

“Maybe it’s your sabatons.” She looks down at his shoes. “Aveline has the same problem. I keep telling her, bare feet are much easier to walk in.”

“Sure,” he says, lifting his boot to regard it, thankful for the distraction. “But I’d look right stupid, the only Templar with no shoes.”

“Because encasing your foot in twenty pounds of metal makes ever more sense,” she says lightly.

The boat behind them blasts its horn, and the sound rumbles deep into Carver’s bones.

“Merrill,” cries Garrett from the prow of the ship. “Time to go.”

“Be right there,” she shouts, waving at him.

She turns to Carver.

“I guess—this is it,” she says. “See you in another three years, I suppose.”

Carver is just gearing up the courage to kiss her when she flings her arms around him, pressing the length and the heat of her lithe body against his. His arms snake around her back, and without thinking, without hesitating, he crushes her to him, as if he could pull her into himself and finally be whole.

Groaning, he buries his nose in her hair. She smells like blackberries.

“ _Dareth shiral, ma’vhenan,_ ” she whispers in his ear.

“I don’t want you to go,” he murmurs.

She draws back slightly, one hand sliding from the back of neck to his jaw. She cups it gently, her thumb tracing invisible lines across his cheek. Into his eyes she gazes deep, her mouth slightly parted, hot breath on his lips. She is beautiful, so beautiful.

“I have to,” she says.

Then she wriggles out of his arms and, with one last, longing glance backward, sprints up the gangplank. It rises behind her, and the ship slowly drifts away from the dock and into the morning sun.

Carver watches it go until he can no longer make out her arm waving at him from the prow, until he can no longer pick out her face, until he can no longer see her ship on the horizon at all.


	58. Intermission: The Merrill Alphabet

As an "intermission" of sorts to "In the Shadow of the Gallows", I wrote an Alphabet Meme from Merrill's POV. It follows Elvhen alphabet, and should be considered "canon" for "Shadows", although not strictly essential; events such as the Wrinkles incident will be referenced in later chapters.

You can read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/346737/chapters/563274


	59. Line in the Sand

A chill wind blows, as if the Wounded Coast is sighing, but Carver does not bend his head to block the sting as trudges through the sand and ferns. He is likewise unconcerned by the pre-dawn shadows that surround him. For the raiders or Tal-Vashoth, sunrise is far too early for mischief, or too late, and for any loners, well, there’s always his sword.

He finds a spot, _the_ spot; unremarkable, undetectable except by his eyes alone. The first time he came here, he found a split bivalve sticking out of the sand like a signpost. The next year, it was gone, of course, but he never forgot where it had been, those twin shell halves, pieces of the same whole, empty.

He watches the sun’s rays touch the clouds for a while, turning them first purple, then blue and green and pink, every color and none. Carver never really liked sunrise, and still doesn’t, because usually it means the end of a graveyard watch, or, back in the Athenril days, coming home from a job smelling foul and feeling fouler. A lifetime ago, sunrise meant milking cows and feeding chickens, and a thousand tasks too menial for what their lives truly were. He should have known it was too good to last.

He stretches, feeling suddenly old and stiff, and plops heavily on the ground.

From his pack, he removes a small bottle. He listens to the tide come in and out for a few minutes before unstoppering it. Against the calming rush of the ocean, the resounding pop sounds almost rude.

He takes a sip, then pours out an equal amount on the sand before him.

“Hey, Bethany,” he says as the sun begins to rise over the water.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mutters. “But you wouldn’t believe where I’ve been.” He pauses, grimacing. “Well, maybe you would,” he concedes, and hates, briefly but vividly, that he doesn’t know which it would have been. He takes another swig from the bottle.

“Ugh.” Carver stares at the bottle, watches the liquid swish around in against the dark glass. “The rat-piss they call ale in Kirkwall. You’d be right insulted, Bethy.” He smiles up at the sky without any real mirth.

Bethy always liked beer. He remembers when they were eight, the first time Mother asked his and Bethany’s help brewing the winter ale. Carver poured in the spices and malts, while Bethany stirred; she called the bubbling, stinking concoction her “witches’ brew”.

Afterward, he was horrified to learn they couldn’t drink the mash; that the beer needed to ferment, age—that even after they’d bottle it, the brew wouldn’t be ready for six weeks. Six weeks! An eternity to an eight-year-old. But Bethany was the one who explained it to him for what it was: an unspoken promise that finally, their days of running were over forever. Lothering was their line in the sand, she’d said, though she confessed she didn’t know what that meant other than hearing Father say it the night before. 

“I never really know where to begin,” he mutters so softly his voice is mostly swallowed by the roar of the tide. “A lot’s changed, but – I guess it always does. I wish you could see it.” He swallows. “Maybe you can.”

He kicks his feet out and leans back on his palms, and stares at a cloud that looks a little like a windmill. “The Order’s—“ He watches the cloud for several seconds, the pink and blue wisps whirling around each other, like windmill sails on fire.”—not so bad, I guess. It’s not like how Father always told us, I’ll say that much. Though Garrett still – well, you know Garrett.” He chuckles. “He’d kill me for saying this, but I think you’d have liked the Circle. I do. There’s all the books you could ever want, and they have classes on history and equations and stuff, and there’s plenty of mage boys to flirt with. You would have been—“ He’s about to say _normal_ , but even four years later, the word still dies on his lips. “ _Happy.”_

“But—the Order’s changing.” Carver sighs and taps the bottle with his outstretched fingers. He debates whether to tell her about Alrik and the rumors he’s heard; or the fact that more of them every day are branded; but he decides he doesn’t want to worry her. He takes another drink. “There’s this – well, Meredith calls it a “cartel” of apostates. They’re smuggling mages out of the Circle like lyrium.” He laughs hollowly at his own joke. “If it were up to me, I’d say let them go. Most of them aren’t like Father, Bethy. They’d be out for one day before they came back—first time they had to pay for something or sleep in donkey shit.” He grimaces at the memory and draws in a deep breath, inhaling the crisp air and briny surf. “The thing is—they’re using the refugee groups, like Lirene’s, the ones that send people back to Ferelden. Except, they’re not sending people, but mages." He pauses briefly. "Well—you know what I mean.”

He takes a long draw on the bottle and quickly changes the subject.

“Mother’s doing alright, I suppose. I think she’s bored up in that big estate of Garrett’s. She doesn’t have any friends, and none of the sewing or Diamondback circles will take her.” He stares down at the tide, watching the froth rage up to the beach, only to dissolve back into the surf. If only his mother could so easily reintegrate into the life she left behind. “She goes down to Lowtown a lot, says she’s looking after Gamlen. Maybe it’s the other way around. Look, I know what I said before, but—he’s not so bad, Bethy. He’s just,” he fumbles for the words. “Angry. Less so, now that Mother’s taken to him.”

For awhile he broods over the idea that he and Garrett are just Gamlen and Mother a generation removed, because it’s better than thinking about how the same could have happened to him and Bethany, had she survived.

“Oh!” He leans forward and points the beer bottle to the sky, as if getting her attention. “I went to Orlais! That’s why I’m a week late. Sorry about that. But I guess I already said that.” The sun breaks from behind the clouds and he grins. “Oh, Bethany, you should have seen it. All the flouncy dresses and lady drinks and stinky cheeses you ever dreamed. I even wore a doublet. And Merrill,” The back of his throat suddenly feels dry, so he takes another drink to wet it again. “Maker but she was beautiful. Damn near stopped my heart.”

Carver notices a tall bird on the beach, bathing itself in the morning surf, its long legs designed both for running and for flight. He watches it for awhile, until it flies away.

“Look, I—I know I’m a Templar. And a human. And an idiot.” He sighs, low and raw. “Definitely that last one. Ugh. Oh, Bethy. What am I even thinking? I already have a nice girl, a future, friends. Everything we never had in Lothering. But it all feels so—empty. You know I’d give it all up just to have you back. In a heartbeat.”

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Carver draws his legs up to his chest and hugs them. He wishes the bird would fly back again.

“Sorry. I know I’m not supposed to talk like that here. But—I’m just confused, with the Order, with Merrill, with everything. I thought that I was over it, over her, but being with her again in Orlais—even after all that happened—it brought it all back. She just has these eyes, and the way they look at you—“ He leans his head on his knees, fiddling with the loose fur around his boots, and when he resumes talking, his voice is no more than a hoarse whisper. “She’ll destroy me, Bethany. Everything I’ve worked so hard for. But I don’t care. I–I guess I’m in love with her.”

He stares at the clouds for several minutes, waiting, listening. Eventually the long-legged bird flies by the surf again, joined by another of its kind; the two of them call to each other in a harsh language that sounds like laughter.

“I swear, this used to be easier,” he mutters, watching the birds. “We used to have it all figured out. You and me, us against them, us against Garrett, and Father, and the world. But now it’s just me, and the world, without you.“

He sits there for a long time, and even in the silence and the solitude, he can’t bring himself to say the things he really wants to. He tells himself it’s alright, they don’t need to be said because she already knows, and besides, it’s not like she’s really there. But that just makes him feel like he should say it all the more.

“I miss you, Bethy,” he murmurs at last. He pours out the rest of the bottle into the surf. “Watch over Father for me. See you next year.”

Then he stands up and, without brushing the sand off his legs, begins the long trek back to Kirkwall.


	60. Varric's New Serial

“Sorry I’m late,” says Carver, removing his gloves and shaking the chill out of his hands. “I had to—“

For a moment he struggles to come up with a reasonable excuse. Briefly he considers telling the truth—that he paced outside the Hanged Man for fifteen minutes, summoning the courage to risk the possibility of seeing _her_ here—but that would be admitting too much, too soon, and to all the wrong people.

He’s about to unload some story about needing to stop by his uncle’s when he notices the barely-contained glee on his fellow players’ faces. Paxley, especially, bounces on the bench as if he’ll erupt at any moment.

“What?” says Carver.

Agatha and Mettin exchange glances. Even Cullen smirks down at the cards he’s shuffling. Maron’s the only one who sits stony-faced and pointedly does not look Carver’s way.

The hairs on the back of Carver’s neck prickle. Even after all this time, a Templar with a secret still makes him nervous. He puffs up his chest and folds his arms over his chest, and tries not to panic. “Alright,” he adds with what he hopes is a threatening enough scowl, “what is it?”

Agatha rustles something out from her pack and tosses it on the table. It’s a loosely bound sheaf of papers.  Across the front are two shadowy figures, one hefting a staff and the other a giant broadsword, and large blocky letters: “THE TALE OF THE RED HAWKE, VOL. 1”. Carver groans.

“Interesting serial,” says Agatha. Mettin snickers.

Carver flushes. His heart hammers against his ribs.

“Dammit, dwarf,” he mutters. “I’m gonna murder him.”

Maron pulls a cigar out of the box, still not looking at Carver. “Is it true?”

“Of course it is,” says Paxley, at the same time Carver says, “Of course it isn’t.”

Carver glares at his fellow Templar. “It’s full of lies,” he says, enunciating every consonant.

Then everyone begins speaking at once.

“Did you really fight an ogre?” asks Agatha.

“Or ride a dragon?” asks Mettin.

“Still have that Warden armor?” asks Paxley.

“Does Moira make you wear it in bed?” snickers Mettin.

Maron is the only one who doesn’t smile. “Is your brother really a mage?”

Cullen clears his throat then. He has an odd look about him, authoritative, like he’s addressing a group of rowdy recruits rather than seasoned Diamondback players. His hands have ceased their shuffling.

“That’s enough, everyone,” he says in a voice that cuts over the Hanged Man din. “As Carver said, it’s full of lies.”

“None of that really happened,” mutters Carver.

“I should hope not,” says Cullen with a meaningful glance. “Imagine. Garrett Hawke, the Chantry’s most generous donor, an apostate.” He chuckles without any real mirth. “It just doesn’t make sense, does it?”

Carver grits his teeth. He’s never discussed the expedition with Garrett, but it’s good to know he’s putting his coin to _some_ intelligent use. Still, Carver wishes it didn’t sting so much. He wonders what his father would think, if he’d be angry or just disappointed.

 _Maker._ He’s going to stomp up those stairs right now and strangle that damn dwarf with his bare hands.

“Bollocks, all of it,” Carver forces out eventually. “Garrett couldn’t start a fire even with a match.”

“Then why did Tethras write it?” says Maron, looking unconvinced.

Carver shrugs violently. “Because Varric’s an idiot.”

“Far from it,” says Cullen, with a smirk. He takes the cards in his hands and begins to deal. “It’s all in the pursuit of dramatic tension. I suspect the same reason for the ogre, and the dragon.”

Carver looks at the table, at the five faces trained on him, waiting for him to contradict Cullen’s assessment with various levels of eagerness.

“Yeah,” he says sullenly. “Whatever. Just deal me in already.”


	61. The Exotic Wonder of the East

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Idunna sends you a letter in Act II, she mentions how the Templars won’t let her leave her cell. (But they will let her send letters, which gave me pause, because—think of the content of the letters she sends, right? All about blood magic books)
> 
> Obviously I played a little loose with that idea here, making an exception here for Chantry services; but I kept the basic idea the same: that is, when she’s not going to the Chantry, she’s kept in solitary confinement.
> 
> Trigger warning: Attempted suicide, torture. Nothing explicit, just implied.

Carver lingers in the atrium outside the Chanter’s Hall, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Even on the best days, the Gallows can feel claustrophobic, but this morning Carver feels like he’s drowning, fighting to inhale enough air as the stone closes in over his head. 

The doors open and amidst a swell of song she strides out, a figure in soft white silks. She wears the red-striped hood that marks her as Reformed. When she notices Carver—or, more accurately, Carver’s sabatons, since she does not lift her gaze from the floor—she bows slightly.

“Ser,” she says, her voice smooth, even, unthreatening.

“Idunna,” Carver murmurs, unsure where to begin.

She smiles beatifically at the flagstones. “It’s Mercy now, Ser. I haven’t gone by Idunna in years.”

Although she is a slim ghost of a woman, a birch sapling bending in the breeze, Mercy still has something of the Blooming Rose about her. Long, sensual tresses peek out from under her hood, and as she politely clasps her hands together in front of her, the folds of her sleeves drape tantalizingly about the bones and scars of her wrists.

She is startlingly beautiful, although Carver wonders how much of her beauty can be attributed to the Blooming Rose and how much to her blood magic practice. Something about carving power from your own flesh seems to require—or even cultivate—a certain kind of natural elegance; Carver sometimes wonders if blood magic is considered vulgar precisely because it looks and feels so _natural._ As Father always used to say: Nothing worth doing ever came easy. 

_“They say she’s fixed now,” Hugh had said when Carver mentioned he was looking for her. The younger Templar snorted. “I’ll believe it when I fuck it.”_

_“Don’t be crass, Hugh,” Ruvena had added, making a face at Carver. Ruvena had too much faith in the Maker to find humor in many of the jokes flying about the barracks these days. Carver had similar difficulties, although for different reasons, none of which stopped him from appreciating Ruvena’s unshakable piety at times like these._

_“Just teasing, Ru,” Hugh had replied, not sounding at all chastened._

“Did you require something of me?” Mercy says softly, and Carver realizes he’s been staring at her silently for several moments. 

“S-sorry.” He clears his throat. “I, um, I wanted to talk.”

“Certainly,” she says. Her voice is melodic, welcoming, and it betrays no malice or spite.  “How may I be of service?”

“Uh.” From the stories Garrett told about his brush with Tarohne’s snarling secret agent, Carver didn’t expect this creature of grace and subservience. He expected, perhaps, someone who smiled with teeth. “No service. Just wanted to ask you about—about—“

“About the Blooming Rose?” She bows again. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

“No—no!” He waves his hands in front of him wildly. “No, I know about the Blooming – not that I’ve been – I mean,” Carver closes his eyes and tries desperately to reclaim control of his vocal cords. “I wanted to ask about your—your Reformation.”

She tilts her head ever so slightly, a movement so subtle that it might have just been an errant breeze stirring the fabric of her hood. These halls are so drafty, after all.

“My Reformation?” she repeats without inflection, without emotion. “Certainly Sers Karras and Thrask would be better to ask about this than I.”

“Well—“ Carver swallows. The Reformation process is a closely guarded secret; field Templars like Carver are rarely ever informed of the specifics, just as Gallows Templars rarely bother with the ins and outs of phylacteries. To most Templars, all that matters is that it _works_. “I wanted to hear your side of it. What it was like.”

She releases a breath that lasts a single heartbeat too long to be a simple exhale, although she keeps her gaze trained on the floor.

“Nobody has asked me that before,” she says quietly. “I assumed the Order found it irrelevant.”

With a sweep of skirts, she takes a seat on the bench outside the Hall, folding her hands demurely in her lap.

“Sit,” she says, her tone without command or weight. “Please.”

Carver sits, clanking awkwardly onto the cushion.

She turns to him, raising her eyes to somewhere near his chin. Her knees brush his, and he jerks them backward, out of her way. She does not appear to notice. “What would you like to know?”

“Um.” Now that he has her attention, he can’t think of what to ask. His gaze fall to her hands, where he can see the faded white scars of her old life criss-crossing her wrists. One or two of the scars are longer and pinker than the rest. “Was it painful?”

“No,” says Mercy. Carver looks back up and searches her eyes for any flicker of deceit, but he can find none. “I was stubborn, but Ser Thrask was very gentle. He didn’t even strike me.”

Carver isn’t surprised to hear that of Thrask. He’s a good man and an even better Templar; and not for the first time, Carver is glad that someone like him, instead of Alrik, is in charge of rehabilitation. "What happened? What did he do?”

“He re-educated me,” she says simply.

“Well, I know that,” Carver says. “But—how?”

“He and others sang me the Chant.” Her voice is kind, as if recalling a pleasant memory. “Day and night. Eventually my eyes were opened. In the eyes of the Maker, I am redeemed.”

She smiles.

Carver knows that Mercy is leaving something out here. He can feel it hanging in the space between them, thick, tangible, begging to be touched, but he doesn’t know the right questions to ask to encourage her to elaborate further. Instead, he closes his eyes, so that he doesn’t have to look at her not looking at him, and asks the question that has been on his mind at least since he spoke to Hugh, perhaps even since Orlais. “Are you still, you know, _you?_ ”

Briefly her eyes flick up to his. They are cold, her gaze faraway. Then her gaze falls back to his chin. Her smile does not falter, does not even waver. “Of course I am, Ser,” she says. “Who else would I be?”

Nothing in the calm, easy manner suggests any malice, but Carver’s throat still seizes anyway, his heart pounding like a drum.

“Good,” he mutters. Carver coughs away the lump in his throat. “Good.”

Mercy sits quietly, not offering any further information, but making no move to leave, either. Whatever it was that was hanging between them is now gone, and eventually Carver realizes that she is waiting to be dismissed.

“Thank you,” he says, fumbling to his feet. “This was—eye-opening.”

She bows. “May the Maker watch over you, Ser, even over the smallest of your deeds.”

“And you too, Idu—Mercy.”

She walks past Carver, her shoulders rounded, her hands clasped before her, her smile warm and firm.


	62. Know Your Audience

“By this point, he’s gooey, yeah, and starts growling about _death to all Templars_ ,” says Carver around a half mouthful of food. He waves his fork in the air for added emphasis. “So I say, ‘You talk too much’, and wham, I Silence him.”

Wide-eyed and grinning, Mother claps her hands over her mouth and makes noises that sound suitably impressed. Garrett and Anders, however, do not laugh. Anders glares at his plate, pushing his food around with his fork, while Garrett watches Anders intently. Neither speaks. 

Carver, taking a sip from his wine goblet, pretends not to notice or care that Mother is perhaps over-exaggerating the humor of his story for Garrett’s benefit. When they were kids, Carver rarely ever got to tell stories. For years, the inexperience made him rush through even the most intricate tale, using too short sentences and flubbing punch lines, all in the pursuit of simply being heard over the laughter that someone else had already evoked. Years in the Gallows, away from his family, have honed Carver’s delivery somewhat, and tonight he’s taking his time, luxuriating in the attention: Garrett is uncharacteristically quiet, Anders hasn’t spoken a word, and Carver finds that he doesn’t have to worry so much about being heard when there’s no laughter to be heard over. 

“The guy falls, boom,” he claps his hands, and Mother bounces in her seat a little, “ass over teakettle, down two flights of stairs.”

“Was he alright?” Anders murmured, suddenly concerned.

Carver makes a face. “He was an abomination.”

“Hmm,” says Anders, returning his gaze to his food.

Carver doesn’t let Anders’s disinterest stop him. For once he has the floor, and he intends to keep it. “He lands right in front of Paxley, who makes this ahhh face, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself,” Carver demonstrates the expression, and Mother grins.

“Clearly a face you know well,” mutters Garrett, but he isn’t even looking at Carver. Anders’s hands clench into fists.

“Well, the poor guy looks like I’ve handed him a dress and asked him to dance the Remigold,” says Carver, not acknowledging the interruption, because he’s getting to the line of his story that tends to go over particularly well in the barracks. “So I point at his sword and shout down, _Use the pointy end, you nit!_ ”

Anders drops his fork, and it clangs loudly against his plate.

“What’s your problem?” says Carver.

“I don’t see the humor in slaughtering innocent mages,” Anders replies. On the table, his knuckles are white.

“Anders,” Garrett begins.

“He wasn’t innocent,” says Carver. “The guy murdered his entire family.”

“He was pushed to it.” The room suddenly smells like the heavy calm after a storm, or right before it. Garrett makes a face that Carver doesn’t dignify.

“Pushed to nothing,” he says instead. “He slashed open his baby sister’s throat—sorry Mother.” She shakes her head, the laughter in her eyes evaporated “And for what? More coin.”

“Maybe if more people would hire Fereldans,” concedes Garrett.

“I hardly see how that’s my fault,” Carver says.

Anders stands up. His chair scrapes along the wooden floor.

“That doesn’t make it his,” he says, and stomps out of the room.

“Anders—“ Garrett calls out to the slamming door. Then he stands up and wheels on his little brother.

“You ass,” he says sourly. “That was the first time he’s eaten in two days.”

Carver shrugs. “Anders’s diet isn’t my problem.”

“Next time, keep the mage-hating to yourself.” Garrett throws his napkin on his chair. “No one else cares.”

He strides out the room after Anders.

Once the door shuts, Carver releases the breath he’d been holding. His shoulders collapse.

“Sensitive bastard,” he mutters. “Sorry, Mother.”

“I thought your story was funny,” she murmurs, putting her hand on his. Three years ago, he would have jerked his hand away, in order to prove something, but now, he just lets it lie. A mother has to feel like she’s making her son feel better, after all, and Carver’s luckier than most Templars in that he still has his. “It reminded me of the stories Maurevar used to tell.”

He looks at her beseechingly. “I don’t hate mages.”

“I know you don’t, love,” she says, squeezing his hand. “Garrett knows it too, deep down. He’s just—conflicted. That’s all.”

Carver pulls his hand away at last. “Garrett can suck an egg.”

“Carver,” she says, a warning without any real heat, and then sighs. “I wish you and your brother wouldn’t fight so much.”

“Tell him that.” He pushes his meat around his plate.

“I would but—“ She smirks at him, her eyes warm and kind. “The first rule of advice is the same as the first rule of storytelling, Carver. You must know your audience.”


	63. The Secret Space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the old smuggler’s tunnel Thrask told Carver about waaaaay back in "Dissension", the one he used to get to Darktown when Merrill's place was raided? This is the same place. And just in case it wasn’t clear back then, it’s also supposed to be the same tunnel Anders tells you about in Act 2, the one the Mage Underground is using to funnel people out of the Gallows. Not that that's going to be relevant in later installments. Not at all.

__Once he’s sure he hasn’t been followed, Carver sinks down, sliding his back against the cavern wall. There he sits, knees bent, eyes closed, throat bared to the dank. Down here the air is cool against his sweat-caked skin, and something, probably the soil, smells faintly of lyrium. The smell is refreshing, peaceful, like listening to music that only he can hear.

Carver exhales slowly. The smuggler’s tunnel might be a foul slant of broken crates and questionable stains, but at least it’s quiet most nights, when its usual inhabitants are out prowling the streets. It’s private, and in a place like the Gallows—much as in Kirkwall proper—when it comes to secret spaces, you take what you can get.

For a while he simply sits and breathes, eyes still closed, trying desperately to forget the sounds of the Gallows: the snapping lash, the giggles of apprentices, barked orders, ominous silences. The rock thrown at his armor this morning. The shuffle of tranks. Sulahnni’s empty eyes. The fall of her hair against her brand. He tries to let it all go, to allow it to slide from his mind to mingle with the garbage and rot here in this tunnel. But as always, the harder Carver tries to forget, the more clearly he sees and hears and feels.

A rock tumbles back down the corridor, the way he came, breaking his reverie.

So much for privacy.

Carver leaps to his feet. He didn’t bring his sword down here—normally he doesn’t, as that would raise too many questions should he be spotted—but he does have the dagger in his boot, a gift from Isabela many years ago. Carver’s never tested it, but now it’ll have to do.

“Who’s there?” he says, brandishing the short blade.

Down the corridor, someone – _squeaks._ “Carver?”

He nearly loses his grip on his dagger. “Merrill?”

As if summoned, she steps out of the shadows, breathing hard, eyes wide and panicked. Instead of her traditional Dalish garb, she wears a dark hood and travelling cloak, and as she walks toward him, Carver notices that Merrill carries no staff.

He sheathes the dagger back in his boot. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying not to be spotted. You?”

“The same.”

A long moment passes, and neither speaks. As adrenalin fades, the reality of the situation starts to set in—where Carver is, and with whom, and that they are alone, together, in a place not even Moira knows exists.

Carver hasn’t seen her in six weeks: no letters, no word from Garrett—not that there would be, of course, not from _him_ —not even so much as a pot of daisies outside her house in the alienage. He’d thought her silence had been a blessing. Looking at her now, though, every bit as beautiful and sad as the day she boarded the boat, he realizes it was more like torture.

Merrill’s gaze rakes his body once, crazed and half-starved, then she turns her head, abruptly finding a crack of intense interest on the cavern wall. Carver suddenly, vividly remembers the weight of her thighs pressing against his, silk on his fingertips, her lips yielding beneath his own. The taste of blackberries.

Carver scowls at the heat creeping on his cheeks. Blighted Fereldan complexions leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. At least, he tells himself, it’s dark down here, although the same helpful voice reminds him that actually, it’s not _that_ dark at all.

“Um,” he begins.

“You’re in plain clothes,” she blurts, and makes an odd choking noise. Her fingers, clasped before her, idly rub at the callous on one hand between the thumb and forefinger.

He lets out a shaky breath. “We don’t wear armor when we’re not on duty.”

“It’s dangerous,” she says. She reaches out to the stone with one shaking hand and touches it. “You could be eaten by cave spiders.”

“With any luck, they’d go after the junkies first. Then they’d be too dusted to come after me,” he concedes.  This is not the conversation he thought he’d be having when the two of them reunited. Though, to be fair, he didn’t think there’d be much conversation at all. “What about you? You’re not in your armor either.”

“Dalish mail isn’t good for sneaking,” she says. Her eyes flick back to him briefly, then return to the rock. She swallows. “Your arms got much bigger.”

He looks down at a bicep, as if the right words were tattooed on his skin – or better yet, that it might be convinced to have this awkward conversation in his stead. “I guess? It hasn't been that long.”  

“I couldn’t see them.” She adds, flushing. “In the doublet, I mean.” 

“Oh.” Silence once again falls between them, ponderous, thick. The air between them is so still he’s sure she can hear his thudding heartbeat, his juddered breath.

Maker, why did it have to be _her?_ Why couldn’t it have been the Carta, or maleficars, or an entire garrison of genlocks instead?

“So,” he croaks, desperate to fill the silence. “Why are you in my—in this—here?”

“My mirror,” she says. “In the alienage. It doesn’t work.”

“You mean it doesn’t reflect.”

Merrill shrugs, still not looking at him. Nor does she continue; she just scrapes the stone back and forth with her forefinger. 

“So you went to the Gallows for what--a silversmith?”

She shakes her head. “It needs magic,” she mutters, as if she expects him to scold her. “So I went to your library to look up how to fix it.” Her finger snags on the rock and she tugs it a little; it flies off. She flinches. “But it’s hard to read anything when it’s dark and you can’t light any candles.”

Merrill looks up at him. He wants to touch her. Every nerve in his body screams, begs him to reach out and pull her close and never let her go. He can barely hold back.

“Anders told me about the tunnel,” she says in an apologetic voice. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I swear, I wouldn’t have come if I did.”

Realization dawns on him, and now he is the one to avert his gaze. “You sneaked in because you didn’t want to see _me_.” 

“No,” she gulps, “I didn’t.”

“Ah,” he says. Maker is _he_ an idiot. Maybe he’d been tormenting himself for nothing; maybe she hadn’t meant what she'd said in Orlais, or she hadn't said what he’d thought she had; maybe it all was just his memory playing tricks on him, the consequence of too much want and too little reciprocation. But Carver knows better than anybody that wanting something badly isn't enough to make it real. He steps aside, sweeps his arm out like a sword and gestures down the cavern. “Well. Don’t let me keep you then.”

“Carver—“ She steps toward him, but he backs away.

“You should come back during the day, though. Dressed like that, nobody will bother you. Including me.” He drops his hand, where it falls limply at his side. “It’s dangerous sneaking around the Gallows at night. You wouldn’t want to be mistaken for an apostate.”

He can feel her gaze upon him, but he won’t look, he refuses to look, he won’t give her the satisfaction.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you, Carver?” she asks after a long moment. Her voice is small, curious, and before he can stop himself, he returns his gaze to hers.

“That’s an odd question,” he replies, frowning. “Should I be?”

“Maybe,” she mumbles. She appears ready to crumple in on herself, like a bit of kindling hollowed out by fire. “Others are. My clan is. Your brother, maybe.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re not afraid of anything,” she murmurs, standing motionless, barely breathing.

“I’m afraid of lots of things,” he whispers. “Just not you.”

Carver suddenly feels claustrophobic, the rock walls closing in around him, pushing him toward her, urging him forward. He wonders if she feels the same; with every heartbeat she sways slightly toward him, pulled as if by an unseen force. He blinks, and in the momentary darkness sees her twirling in his bedroom, back in Gamlen's shack, weightless, happy, free.

Then Merrill backs away, the spell broken.

“Stay away from me, Carver Hawke,” she says firmly. And in a flurry of cloak and hair, she scurries down the corridor toward Darktown. 


	64. No Light I: The Reluctant Storyteller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tada! I decided to quit my stalling and just jump into Act 2… although I suppose you can’t really call this “jumping into”, since it’s more of a 30,000 ft view, like a plane circling above an airport waiting to land. But I wanted to take a step back first before we step forward, if only to remind myself that even given all the various catastrophes of Act 2 (and boy there really are so many), our heroes do make it through alive. Different, perhaps. But alive.
> 
> So I hope you’ll forgive me playing around with a Dickensian perspective here — it’s obvious, I think, which was the only chapter of “A Tale of Two Cities” I really liked — because sometimes, I’m learning, even the writer of the story needs the assurance that everything will be okay in the end.

Carver is no storyteller—at least, not like his brother, who with a single smirk could hold rapt a packed taproom or Circle Tower. Even his sister had a way of holding one’s gaze when she spoke such that the rest of the world melted away, leaving behind only her voice, her laughter.  Carver, though, he’s a doer, not a talker – it’s right there in his name – and he’s lived through enough stories to know that they’re never quite as exciting as they seem in taprooms and towers. From the inside, most tales are mainly just scary and tiring, with far more bruises and broken bits that never quite heal.

In later years, when other well-meaning folk—dignitaries, bards, his pupils—ask him what the Battle of Kirkwall was like, he resists the telling, falling back on the same excuse, _I am no storyteller_. (He was also there for the Mage Rebellion, but fewer people ask him about that, because they were all there for the Mage Rebellion, Fereldan and Orlesian and Antivan alike.)

If pressed, he will offer by way of explanation, “It was a hot year.”

Just because he can’t tell stories, after all, doesn’t mean he entirely lacks a sense of drama.

The Time of Troubles, as the year leading up to the Battle of Kirkwall later became known, was one of the hottest times the Marcher port had ever seen. The once-temperate city became a suffocating mass of foul flesh and even fouler streets, and everything tasted faintly of chokedamp, even the meat pies. The Qunari, of course, were made for such swelter, but not the Marchers; not the men in steel suits, whose armor became as ovens; nor the elves, who lacked Dalish tunics with strategically-placed holes and feathers to keep them cool. With such poor wardrobe choices available, it wasn’t any wonder that by the end of it, no cooler heads remained to prevail.

But the heat only explains so much, and so little.

9:34 Dragon was a hot year, yes, but it was also crazy: A year of insanity, of tensions abraded against each other, like fraying ropes that finally snapped. No faction, no relationship was immune. That was the year of the alienage uprising and the Gallows tribunals, of Tarohne’s blood-legacy and raiders on the cliffs, and the walking dead at the Bone Pit (although, truth be told, _that_ particular development surprised no one but Hubert). Justice was nowhere to be found—probably because he’d already been found, lurking in the body of a sour-faced apostate who skulked in the sewers—but vengeance was everywhere, behind every door and in every Lowtown barrel, even in a simple closed book in the Viscount’s Keep. It became difficult to distinguish blood magic from simple boiled blood, and the lines between man and abomination became as indistinct and tenuous as the Veil itself.

9:34 was a year of temptation, and perdition, and failure. It was the time when everything else that could be stripped away finally was, until all that could be relied upon was what was there at the start.

Even the dogs went crazy that year. 

But what Carver doesn’t say, because nobody wants to hear _that_ story, is that 9:34 was also a year of goodness too, and promise, and peace, however transitory it eventually proved to be. In the fires of the Qunari dreadnoughts was forged unity between man and elf, mage and Templar, beggar and noble. All fought for the same cause: to _protect our home._

Given what came next, later historians would often handwave away this moment, perhaps wanting to forget it even existed. In the face of worldwide rebellion, unity became inconvenient.

But like all things that want forgetting, Carver clings ever harder to its memory in the years that follow. If he were the storytelling type, he’d say it was the cause that defined the rest of his life—which makes Carver glad that he’s not the storytelling type, because nothing is ever that simple, or that honorable, and an ending achieved in terms of causes and ideals is almost as silly as one that ignores inconvenient facts.

In later years, Philliam, a bard of moderate renown, would write an epic poem titled, creatively, _An Ode to 9:34 Dragon_ , a stanza of which would become the plaque inscription for a new statue in the Gallows courtyard:  

_We are all made of dying light  
The briefest flicker before the wakeless night;  
In the shadow of the gallows   
are forged honest men:  
Slaves to heroes, kings to knaves;   
Love our only legacy, the light without end._

It reads better in its native Orlesian, Carver assumes, although he has never seen the plaque for himself, only the statue; and while he often talks about returning to Kirkwall to view the inscription, among other things, he can never quite make himself follow through on his plans. That’s because he remembers all too keenly his pilgrimage to Ostagar with his daughter, and how the locals had turned it into a bazaar, selling wooden swords and bits of broken shields to bored tourists.

“Life goes on,” said one of the trinketsmongers. “Isn’t that always the way?”

And that was the way too, back then, in 9:34 Dragon – life went on, through defeat, through despair, and through triumph as well. It was a year of loss and hope conjoined, the start of a new pattern—though, of course, too much of the former and not enough of the latter would follow in its immediate wake.

9:34 was a year of new beginnings, new stories, of coming together despite adversity and duty, and all the fears and causes that held them back; of locating a new path on the map—even if one wasn’t always ready to walk it yet.

“That was the year we found each other,” Carver says once, when he really means, _that was the year everything began to end._


	65. No Light II: Search and Capture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s my headcanon that the Order is structured much like the Guard, in that Templars have some agency over which roles they can perform within the Order. All Templars probably need to pull some guard duty and, especially in Acts II and III, some peacekeeping rounds within the city, but apart from that, I think they get a lot more freedom to choose their assignments. Some train recruits, some probably do the recruiting; others manage the phylacteries, interrogations; some probably deal with administrative tasks like weapons acquisitions and food management, others to deal with Formari and Tranquil relations, etc.
> 
> I’ve always envisioned Carver as a field Templar, one of the soldiers who go out hunting down apostates. Not only is that poetic justice, given his upbringing, but he’d also probably be really good at it — considering he already knows all the tricks of the trade.

“Ever feel like you’re the bait, not the wolf?” mutters Paxley as they crouch together behind a boulder. Before them the apostate, Innley, sits alone, unguarded, toasting over a small fire what appears to be a stick laden with poisonous berries. 

“No,” whispers Carver, because that’s easier than saying, _yes, all the time._

The scenario before them does seem suspicious, but Carver has run enough search-and-capture details by now to realize that sometimes, things truly are as they seem. On some days, the good days, an apostate really is just an apostate.

Carver finds himself on search-and-capture duty more and more often—especially now, given that the Mage Underground has become so large and well-funded that it has begun sending raiding parties brazenly into the Gallows. The Fereldan in him admires, albeit begrudgingly (as all Fereldan admiration is), the outsized gumption behind the idea; he just wishes the Underground were better about selecting its targets. Not all who desire freedom can handle the heavy responsibility of self-sufficiency.

This particular apostate, who glumly kindles his handmade fire while watching his toxic berries char, hardly makes a compelling case of it.

Innley stares into the flames without blinking. It’s never a good sign when they stop blinking. It could indicate physical shock, of course, a reaction to stress and trauma—or it could mean the situation has progressed beyond the need to blink, in which case Carver would need to escalate accordingly.

When he first enlisted, Carver thought killing abominations would be the most unpleasant part of his job, but he was wrong about that too; it’s this part, the unknowing, that Carver hates the most. Once the demon moves in, and the flesh goes all gooey, the rest is easy. It’s just follow-through.

But Carver sees no demon before him, no tragedy, no rebellion; just fatigue and hunger—and fear. Four years ago, when Decimus’s cult burnt the Starkhaven Circle to the ground, Innley was not among those who fled. According to his file, Innley, an entropic theorist, was perfectly content to remain within the Circle—even throughout its reconstruction phase, when mages were temporarily forced to reside in an actual active prison, and not just a former one.

Innley’s freedom, unfortunately for Innley, is more of the imposed kind. He’d had the misfortune to be stuck on a transfer caravan the Underground had targeted for “liberation” a week ago. Not important enough to the Underground to be protected by them, and not troublesome enough to the Order that his disappearance would be immediately noted, Innley won his freedom by default: In the ensuing battle, he was simply overlooked.  

Carver, who knows a thing or two about being overshadowed, can’t help but feel like a kindred spirit.

“I know you’re there,” Innley calls out. He hugs his knees to his chest and starts to rock back and forth. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it already.”

Exchanging a glance with Paxley and signaling to the others to hold their positions, Carver stands up and walks toward Innley’s fire.

“We aren’t here to kill you,” he says evenly, his hands out in front of him to demonstrate he is no threat – a lie, of course, but a necessary one. He stops just short of the circle of light cast by the merry flame. “We’re here to bring you back.”

“I won’t go,” Innley says.

They _always_ say that.

“Is that so?” Carver sighs, attempting to sound as if he hasn’t had this conversation twenty-eight times before. Search-and-capture doesn’t always have to end in bloodshed, and when Carver’s in charge, it usually doesn’t—which is why he tries to take as many of these details as he can, even if it means less time for peacekeeping in the alienage. “Where will you go instead?”

Innley shrugs, as most of them usually do. “I dunno. To Tevinter, I guess.”

“Hmm,” says Carver. He takes a single step toward Innley, who doesn’t grimace or recoil, which Carver takes as a good sign, a sign of trust, or at least temporary détente. Experience has taught him that the more you reason with a mage man-to-man, the more likely he is to listen to hard truths he already knows.  “Long way there on foot.”

“I’ll go to the Dalish,” says the mage, eying Carver distrustfully. “They’ll give me a halla.”

Carver snorts. Well. _That’s_ a new one. “More like they’d shoot you in the head first. Besides, they don’t have halla anymore. Blight took them all.”

Grimacing, Innley drags one long forefinger in the sand before him, trailing bright spirit-sparks in its wake.  Carver‘s eyes flicker back to Paxley in caution, and he shakes his head as subtly as he can: _Not yet._

Thankfully, Carver has hunted with the men in this unit before; they’ve seen his— _unique—_ methods of mage capture, and they trust him enough not to draw their weapons until the conversation is over. It’s a good thing, too, because Carver has the distinct impression that the sight of blades right now probably wouldn’t turn Innley into an abomination so much as give him an aneurysm.

“I’ll figure something else out,” the mage mumbles, transfixed by the light show he has produced.

“Also, you’re headed in the wrong direction,” Carver says helpfully. “Tevinter’s north of here.”

“Huh?” Innley looks up at him with wide, panicked eyes. “Which way am I going?”

“Well,” Carver looks around at the surf, the water-birds, the clumps of seaweed by Innley’s foot. “You’re on the Wounded Coast, so I’d say—south?”

Innley groans and rests his forehead against his knees. “I knew it,” he mutters into the hollow of his belly. 

Carver fights back a smile. For every mage like his Father or Garrett or Merrill, there are ten more like Innley: good at escape – or having escape thrust upon them – yet undone by the simplest consequences of their own freedom. It’s not that Carver doesn’t sympathize – if it were him, he’d want to feel the sunshine on his shoulders and dirt under his feet too. But it’s what comes after that that always ends up being the problem.

“You haven’t any supplies, either – food, bedroll, a tent.” Carver takes another step forward. “Tell me, how much money do you have in your pockets right now?”

Innley shoots Carver a sour look. “I have _money_. I’m not an idiot.” He withdraws a fistful of clattering coins from his pocket, and the awkward shape of his palm demonstrates no real sense of how to fit the odd disks into his hand. “Six whole sovereigns.”

“Six sovereigns won’t get you very far,” says Carver. “Maybe to Nevarra.”

“Then I’ll stay in Nevarra,” he mutters.

“Good idea,” agrees Carver with a nod. “You can live in the necropolises with the gangbangers and the murderers and the dusters.”

Innley groans again.

“Look, it’s your choice,” says Carver, even though he knows it isn’t. But he likes to believe in the illusion; he likes to believe that when he gives this speech, he’s not just doing it for the mage’s benefit. “Warm bed, nice blankets, hot dinners—or cuddling with cutpurses in a tomb somewhere.”

“I can’t go back to the Gallows,” Innley sobs abruptly. “Please, just send me back to Starkhaven.”

“I’ll ask for a transfer,” Carver lies. This is the toughest part of the conversation, the part Carver always has trouble getting through with any sincerity.

Innley looks up, his young features drawn into a tight mask, clearly unconvinced.

“I can’t go back there,” he repeats more firmly. “It’s just all stone there, no light, no light at all. Please, Ser, don’t make me.”

Carver lets out a long, low breath. He walks over to the mage, crouches next to him. This close, he can see that Innley is shivering—despite the summer heat and the warm, woolen Gallows robes. 

“Maybe the Gallows isn’t perfect,” Carver concedes. “But believe me, it’s better than living among murderers and thieves, peddling your talent for coin. I’ve been there. I know.” With a gauntleted hand, he gestures toward the fire, which still merrily pops and sways, despite a lack of any visible kindling or wood. “You have a calling, Innley. The Maker gave you a gift.”

“A—gift?”  The apostate laughs once, roughly, and stares at his hands, turning them over, as if he’s never before seen them. “Nobody’s ever called it _that_ before.”

“Well,” says Carver softly. “It is. I’ve often wished I had it.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Innley snorts.

Carver shrugs. “My father was a mage. So was my sister.”

Innley eyes Carver suspiciously. “But you’re a _Templar_.”

“And you are _special,_ ” he says. He rocks back on his heels and looks at the fire, instead of the apostate; it’s easier that way. “Innley, you deserve better than working for some lowlife thug, turning his enemies to toads for looking at him funny. Or worse—becoming that thug. Let your magic serve what’s best in you, not what’s most base.”

Innley is silent for several moments. “I don’t want to be a thief,” he says at last.

“Then come back to the Circle,” Carver says gently. “Come back and be what you were born to be.”

“Alright,” Innley says eventually. “I’ll come with you.”

They always do.

Carver claps the apostate on the shoulder, which makes Innley flinch, and, standing again, he throws the hand signal to allow the other Templars to come out of their hiding places. Some of them look anxious, even disappointed.

“There sure are a lot of you,” says Innley glumly, as Carver helps him to his feet.

One of the Templars starts to pull out manacles, but Carver waves him back furiously.

“We’re here to keep you safe,” he says to Innley. From his pack, Carver pulls a vhenadahl fruit that he purchased yesterday morning. He tosses it to the mage, who catches it awkwardly. “Here, I bet you’re starving.”

“Thanks, Ser,” says Innley, eyes wide and liquid.

Carver nods, man to man, and takes point next to Paxley, who leans over and whispers, “Do murderers really live in the necropolises?”

“Flames if I know,” says Carver.


	66. No Light III: Innley's Sentence

“Tranquil!?” Carver blurts, suddenly losing the ability to modulate his voice. Outside Knight-Captain Cullen’s office, the ambient chatter of recruits and administrators falls eerily silent.

Carver’s used to shouting over people—in crowded taprooms and ship holds, around gurgling smugglers and hurlock heads—but that’s different than shouting _at_ people, or _about_ them. That’s just not his style—Carver had always considered himself the strong, silent type, too aloof and controlled for emotional outbursts. Best to leave the talking to other people: men like his brother, who enjoyed the sound of their own voice.

But there’s a first time for everything—although Cullen’s pained expression makes Carver wish that his hadn’t been directed at his superior officer.

Carver grimaces by way of apology and tries again. “Captain, no—I can’t—I can’t recommend,” he swallows his heart back into his chest and forces himself to speak slowly, calmly, and not to shout again, “th-the _brand_. Not in good conscience—“

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” interjects Alrik, who sits in the chair next to Carver like a cat on a ledge, waiting for its nightly saucer of milk. His voice is calm, pleasant, and his watery blue eyes shine placidly. “However, Innley was of Starkhaven—a rebellious lot, all of them. An example needs to be set.”

“Bollocks,” Carver grits through clenched teeth.  His hands grip the armrests of his chair, fingernails digging into the plush velvet. “Innley came back on his own. How much better of an example could he set?”

Alrik shakes his head sadly. “If we forgive this insolence, he will just try again,” he says, speaking directly to Cullen, as if Carver weren’t in the room. “He has demonstrated the _true_ character of his spirit.”

“How can you—?” Carver can’t summon the right words in trade tongue to finish his thought, perhaps because he’s not sure that the thought itself is expressable; it’s just a jumble of frustration, and heat, and anger.  This entire conversation is unspooling in his gut like sour beer. He can’t help but remember Bethany, who feared the brand more than anything, more than spiders or darkspawn or the Circle itself. After their father explained what Tranquility was, she had nightmares for weeks, waking up sobbing in the night, inconsolable, until Carver would dance their jig or, on very bad nights, crawl onto her bed and make her dolls Remigold across her pillow until she calmed down. 

“The brand isn’t meant to be a punishment, Ser Alrik,” says Cullen.

“This isn’t about punishment,” Alrik replies smoothly. “This is about _mercy._ ”

The older Templar leans his elbows on the armrests, hands steepled before him, appearing distant and collected, as if they were all discussing the weather or the Viscount’s tax policies. “Innley, and others like him, are like dogs hurling itself against their kennels. If we allow this to continue, eventually the poor man will inadvertently kill himself.” 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Carver snarls, his short-lived patience at an end. Maybe he’s not so much the strong, silent type after all. “Captain, he didn’t ask to be freed. The Underground did it anyway.”

Alrik smiles at Carver like he’s a child, or perhaps a particularly fascinating accounting table. “But he took the chance to run, Ser Hawke,” he says, as if this explains everything.

“What else was he to do? They just left him there, no way to get back.” Carver shifts in his seat, barely able to remain sitting. “Should he have just waited for the Tal-Vashoth to come? Evet’s Marauders, maybe?”

“Nevertheless, he saw an opportunity present itself, and he seized it.” Alrik turns back to Cullen. “Make no mistake, Captain, that sort of opportunism spreads itself like contagion. Now that Innley has had a taste of apostasy, he won’t stop until he reclaims it. He will make new opportunities, and stir discontent among the magery, until none of his fellows are happy again.” Alrik’s icy eyes flicker to Carver briefly. “I— _appreciate_ Ser Hawke’s idealism, but misery is not a kindness, Captain.  You must allow mercy to prevail.“

Carver cannot think of a proper retort, so he decides to glare at Alrik until he can. Problems were so much more easily solved in the Athenril days, with a fist or a pommel, and rarely any shouting.

Something about Alrik unsettles Carver, though he can’t quite figure out exactly. Perhaps it is simply that cool, clinical air—Alrik is known for his brilliant mind for numbers and probabilities; it’s likely why he offered to lead the Templar-Formari Relations Committee—a job nobody else wanted, because it meant dealing with tranks all day.

He’s a smart man, experienced, pious, a lifer in the Order. If anyone should give guidance about the benefits of Tranquility, surely it should be him. And yet, Alrik has something of the snake about him, slithering and untethered.  

Carver knows there are darker rumors too, although he’s only heard whispers, really, as nobody seems willing to repeat them in the presence of a Fereldan.  Rumors don’t necessarily mean anything, of course; nastiness is the way of the Gallows sometimes. With so many people crammed into so small a fortress, words are bound to go rotten now and then. Indeed, as a Fereldan and perpetual outsider, Carver’s been the subject of quite a few stories himself, including a few rude ones about how mabari truly keep their owners warm at night. It doesn’t help that some of the rumors about his past– particularly the ones about him once smuggling lyrium – are true.

But sometimes when Alrik smiles—and it’s always the merest twitch of the lips, and nothing more—Carver wonders just what exactly it is that others say about the man behind closed doors.

Cullen nods once, curtly, and folds his hands before him.

“Thank you. I’ll take both of your positions under advisement,” he says.

Carver looks from Cullen’s tight-lipped gaze to Alrik’s smirk and back again. “Captain,” he says, fighting back desperation. “You can’t be seriously considering this.”

“I said,” a muscle in Cullen’s jaw pops, “I’ll take it under advisement, Templar. _Dismissed._ ”

Carver glares at Cullen one last time, and then stomps out of the office, out of the administrative wing, out of doors completely, not stopping until he’s reached the main courtyard, face bare to the sunshine and the scant clouds up above. But the harsh slant of light doesn’t feel quite as warm as he’d hoped; indeed, it doesn’t much feel like heat at all. Only illumination, vision, color without meaning.


	67. No Light IV: The Bar Brawl

Carver throws the first punch, and while it doesn’t feel as good he’d hoped, at least it _feels_ like something, and that’s worth chasing. His knuckles connect with cartilage, then bone; there’s a cracking, a squelching. Blood dribbles from the broken nose.

With a cry, the pompous sot staggers backward, as Carver shakes out his hand, blood sticky on his fingers.

“Fucking dog-fuckers,” the other man hisses.

Then he hurls himself at Carver, a flurry of fists and teeth and elbows and knees, and it’s all so hard to keep track of, what with the Hanged Man swirling around Carver like whiskey in a dirty glass. Bile rises, mixing on his thickened tongue with the left-over sour taste of Corff’s finest. It wouldn’t be dignified to throw up during a bar brawl. Messy, yes. Effective, certainly. But efficacy, _winning_ —that’s not the point of a bar brawl _._ Especially not tonight.

Carver never fought much with the Lothering kids: first because Father sternly commanded him not to, and Father never sternly commanded anyone; and then because adolescence made him too large for anyone to risk the pain. Sure, he scrapped with Garrett, but that wasn’t the same: battles waged at arm’s length, that always began and ended with magic, could hardly compare to scraped hands and bloody noses and rude insults about one’s lineage or bedroom habits. 

That’s not to say that Carver’s never been in a hand-to-hand fight; life with Athenril gave him all the education he needed on that, and what he couldn’t learn on the job he learned afterward, on nights like these, brawling in the Hanged Man to let off the steam that couldn’t be released any other way. Garrett never understood, of course, because Garrett never understood anything, especially that some men needed to grapple with their grief and longing, rather than coddle it as if it were a precious treasure worth preserving.

“It’s like you _want_ to be thrown in jail,” Garrett had chastised him once.

“Maybe I do,” he’d replied.  

“Don’t be such a baby,” Garrett had snapped.

You could take the Fereldan off the streets but not the streets out of the Fereldan, or the mud, or the Blight, and Carver thinks he had it right back then – if everyone was going to look at you as a thug, then why not embrace it? Why not be what you were born to be?

He’s on top of the man now, slamming the heel of his palm into the man’s chin again and again; his knuckles into his gut, his knee into his groin. The man grunts and sobs, and bone cracks, and Carver loves it all: this easiness, this freedom – _this_ is real, and nothing else.

But then someone grabs him from behind, lifting him easily by the back of his jerkin. He’s shoved roughly against the wall. The world is suddenly a fog of color and sea spray and whiskey.

“That’s enough,” growls Isabela, inches from Carver’s face. Her black hair curls around her face like sea foam, an image that vividly reminds Carver of just how queasy he still feels.

“Shod off,” Carver mumbles.

She pushes him again, and his head thunks painfully onto the wall behind him. “I said,” she hisses, “that’s _enough._ ”

He turns his chin away from her, partly to hide his frustration, but also partly because he doesn’t vomit down her open jerkin. She’d never let him fuck her then.

“Upstairs,” she grits, letting him go with equal force.

He stares at her for a moment. Everyone in the Hanged Man is looking at them, except for Corff, who never looks at anyone unless they’re giving him fake money. He zealously polishes his bar, as if nothing else in the world mattered.

Carver spits out a spray of blood. He kicks a nearby stool. It flies a few feet and crashes against a table.

“Bli’ take you all,” he slurs, waving his hand at the silent room. “Hurlocksh pish in your shkulls.”

Isabela grabs him by the furred collar and pushes him toward the stairs.

“Ooh, baby,” he says, struggling to stay upright.

“Less talking, more shuffling,” she says crisply, shoving him up the stairwell. “Move it.”

He stumbles on the bottom stair, toppling down, chin connecting with the sour-smelling steps. Isabela half-grabs him, half-hurls him up the remaining stairs.

“Corff put ‘n new shtepsh,” he offers as an explanation.

“Whatever,” she replies.

At the top, Carver spots Varric’s suite. The door is closed. For some reason, he feels insulted to his core, even more offended than when the man downstairs said—what did he say again? Carver can’t quite remember. But whatever it was, it was the deepest affront to his gentle Fereldan nature. Like Varric’s door is right now.

Carver tries to spit at the closed door but ends up just vomiting on his boots.

“Lovely, kiddo,” Isabela murmurs, holding back his hair as he purges his stomach again and again.

After he’s finished, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “How’sh bout a kish?” he jokes, puckering his face like a fish.

She recoils without laughing, and points toward her room. “Keep moving.”

He lurches toward her suite. Once he’s inside, and she closes the door and turns toward him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Something smells foul. It takes Carver a moment to realize it’s him.

He sits heavily on her bed and grins, reaching out to her unsteadily. Her breasts are enormous. He wants to bury his head between them and cry. “If you wanted some o’ dis, Izzy,” he chuckles, “you jus’ needed to as’.”

“I prefer a man who can handle his liquor, thanks,” she sourly says, rolling her eyes. “Now, you want to tell me what’s gotten into you?”

His smile evaporates. Nothing is left in his stomach, but he still feels the need to vomit.

“Carver.” She glowers at him. “Do I need to send a runner to your brother?”

“No.”

“Then start talking.”

He sighs and drops his head into his hands, trying to summon enough sobriety to hold an extended conversation. It’s probably a good thing she’s not interested in a fuck. He couldn’t keep it up now even if he’d wanted to.

“Tranquility,” he mutters at last. “It’sa helluva—“ He can’t think of any word horrible enough  to finish the sentence, “a _thing_.”

She drops her arms to her sides. “Tranquil—like mages?”

Nodding helplessly, he returns his gaze to his hands. Big hands. Strong hands. Now caked in blood and vomit, and other things he’s too drunk to identify.  

“Innley,” he mutters. “They was goin’ to make ‘im a trank. I told ‘em not to.  So. They didn’.”

Isabela takes a step forward. In one smooth motion, she lays her daggers on her table. The noise is gentle, careful; Carver barely hears it over the pounding in his ears. “That’s a good thing, no?”

Carver snorts. “They tranked three othersh inshtead.”

Isabela sucks in a soft breath. “What?”

“Jus’ picked ‘em out a’ the Shtarkies a’ random,” he says. He plucks at the air in front of him. “One, two, three. Jus’ like dat.” He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees bright lights. “They didn’ even know ‘im.”

“Balls,” she whispers.

“Ish my fault, Izzy.” Carver removes his hands and tries to meet her gaze, but ends up staring at the floorboards instead, trying to focus his vision. In the wooden whorls, he sees only empty, glassy eyes, all the light extinguished, as if it had never been there at all. “Ish my fault they’re not pepple anymore.”

Isabela sits next to him on the bed. She doesn’t put her arm around him, or let him pitch into her soft bosom; she just presses her shoulder against his, skin to skin, muscle to muscle. It is enough.

“Sleep here tonight,” she says after a time.

He smirks at her sadly. “Ish that an offer?”

“No.” She smiles back at him. “Although—I did always like a man in uniform.”

He waggles his eyebrows. “Shure you wouldn’ li’ a man outta uniform bedder?”

“Don’t press your luck, kiddo.” She stands, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll be in Varric’s. There’s a bucket under the bed if you need it. Try not to mess my sheets.”

“Wait—“ he says, reaching after her.

“Yes?” She turns, her eyebrow quirked. It makes him blush, and he loses his train of thought.  

“Thanks,” he says, sure that he’s forgetting something.

“Anytime, Carver. And don’t worry,” she adds with a wink. “I won’t tell Merrill about this.”

He grins. “Thanks,” he repeats again, more warmly than before.


	68. No Light V: Trank Duty

“Ser Hawke,” says Alrik, tearing his rheumy gaze away from the neat piles of paperwork on his desk. He regards Carver as one might view a travelling butterfly garden at the Grand Tourney—intriguing, but more intriguing still for its very existence.  “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Lieutenant,” says Carver, saluting.

The older Templar does not smile, nor frown, nor otherwise arrange his features into any semblance of human expression apart from mild curiosity. Such is Alrik’s way, of course—Carver’s grateful the man is polite enough to describe which surprises are pleasant and which are not, because without the added guidance, Carver would never know. He wonders if such stoicism is something Alrik picked up from hanging around tranks all day, or if he was born that way: half man, half Gallows statue.

“Do be seated,” says Alrik, mildly, pleasantly, after the moment has tipped from polite lull to awkward silence.

Carver arranges himself in the chair carefully, heavily, as if he wore full plate and skirts instead of just off-duty plain clothes. Not for the first time, he wonders if he’s making a mistake in coming here; he just hopes Alrik isn’t expecting an apology for their argument in Cullen's office.

“Ser,” he says, once he has settled and can stall no longer. “I’d like to volunteer for trank—Tranquil duty.”

Alrik raises a single eyebrow so deliberately, so pointedly, that after it has finished its ascent, Carver finds himself wondering if it had always been raised.

“Tranquil duty,” Alrik repeats, rolling the words on his tongue. He watches Carver closely, as if he thought Carver might suddenly sprout flame from his fingertips. “And what is that exactly?”

Carver frowns. “Um—well, I’m not sure. I was hoping you could tell me. If-how you needed help…?”

“Ah, I see,” says Alrik, relaxing back in his chair. “How righteous of you to take an interest in the truly needy.” Carver notices a small crystal statuette on Alrik’s desk, acting as a paperweight. It is a woman with a cow’s head—a Rivaini fertility talisman, perhaps, one of the chintzy Llomerryn trinkets that the Lowtown merchants sometimes resell in the bazaar. Why Alrik has it, Carver can only hazard a guess. “You know, most young knights don’t much care for the—what do they call them?”

“Tranks, ser.” It falls off Carver’s tongue awkwardly.

“Ah, yes. Tranks. Ugly word.” Alrik shakes his head. “They say the _tranks_ make them feel uncomfortable.” He peers closely at Carver. “Do they make _you_ feel uncomfortable, Ser Hawke?”

 _Not as much as you do._ “A little, yes.”

Alrik chuckles, a warm enough sound, but somewhat hollow and scraping. Back in Lothering lived a certain brightly-colored bird that mimicked the calls other birds made in order to lure in prey, or even steal another’s nest—Alrik’s laugh reminds Carver of that.

“The Maker favors an honest man, Carver Hawke,” he says. “But once you’ve spent enough time around them, you’ll realize the Tranquil are as dignified as the rest of us—if not more so.”  

Alrik’s gaze drifts to Carver’s chest, where, if he were wearing full plate, the Order’s flaming sword would normally be emblazoned.  “I envy them sometimes. No doubt, no fear. Emotions can be such… liabilities.” He contemplates his words as if he were calculating a particularly complex sum.  “But I suppose doubt can serve the faithful, even as it vexes them.”

“Uh, yes.” Carver can’t shake the feeling that this is a test of some sort, and he is failing miserably. “I suppose so, ser.”

“So,” says Alrik, folding his hands before him, his fingers steepling into the air. “Why are you volunteering now for Tranquility duty?”

“Because—“ Carver stares down at his hands. _Because it’s my fault four of them are tranks now. Because I need to know why it scared Father so badly. Because I can’t look in the mirror otherwise._ “—because the Maker calls me to it.”

Alrik nods. “It does not do to resist a summons from the Maker,” he says, laughing politely at his own joke. Carver forces himself not to wince. “I cannot deny that your offer of aid is most fortuitously timed, Ser Hawke. We are planning to phase out the Tranquil Quarters.”

“But where will you put them?” Carver has the sudden image of the Blooming Rose filled with branded mages, taking overcoats and serving the johns ale and cheese.

“We won’t _put_ them anywhere. They’ll be allowed to retain their old quarters.”

“You mean, they’ll be living among the other mages?”

“Your tone suggests you find this undesirable,” says Alrik, brow knitting in the same ponderous, stone-like way as before, even as his voice remains mild and light. “But Meredith believes—as do I—that all mages will benefit for Tranquil to be among their own people again. Isolation is unhealthy. Besides, mages should see that the Tranquil are not to be feared. They are no monsters, or demons. They are regular people, just like them.”

Now it is Carver’s turn to peer closely at his superior; but he can find no artifice in the older Templar’s words, no disingenuousness or irony. Alrik is _sincere._ Carver doesn’t know quite how to feel about that, whether to be intimidated or envious or disgusted.  Of course, Alrik’s piety is common knowledge in the Gallows, as is the fact that, as a young Templar, he distinguished himself by designing a new method of slaughtering cattle, one far more humane and efficient.  That Alrik is a man of numbers and practicalities, not subtleties or sympathies, this should come as no surprise.

Yet to see it in practice, Carver thinks, is another matter entirely.

“Naturally we expect some,” Alrik hesitates, searching for the right word, “ _dissent_ with this policy. We could use volunteers for extra patrol duty.”

“Patrols? But I thought tranks—“

“Tranquil, please.”

“Tranquil. I thought they didn’t need to worry about demons.”

“It is not the demons we must guard them from, but other men,” says Alrik softly. “Their fellows can be so— _cruel._ It is our calling, as always, to protect our charges from harm.”

Carver draws a long, steadying breath before nodding.

“Sign me up then,” he says.

Alrik smiles.

“May the Maker reward you for your mercies,” he says.


	69. No Light VI: Helmets

Carver hates his helmet.

For starters, the blasted thing doesn’t fit quite right: his ears always nudge up against the cold metal, and when he swings his sword, it has this dangerous tendency to whirl around his head, obscuring his vision. Not that enough light ever comes through the slit anyway; fighting while helmeted becomes a game of shadows and estimation, and a substitution of brute force and blind hope for elegance or tactics. And Maker help you if you’re up against multiple combatants. The lack of peripheral vision makes it impossible to track a battlefield, and Carver can’t help but wonder if whoever designed the damned cans did so specifically with the purpose of ganging up on single opponents in mind.

Plus, it stinks. (Or maybe that’s just him.)

With a helmet on, Carver feels less like a man and more like a metal cage—or worse, like one of Garrett’s stone golems, creatures Carver at first thought were just another of his brother’s fanciful exaggerations.

Though he’d never say as much out loud, helmets are one of the reasons Carver likes field work so much. Should he decide to forgo his own tin can, no one on his squad would look twice. After all, he fought at Ostagar. That alone affords him a few eccentricities, even among a Marcher set.

On patrol duty, however, Carver has no choice. Rules are rules.

“Ser,” says one of the apprentices as she scurries past his post, right at the entrance to the Tranquil Quarters. She fixes Carver’s helmet with a nervous look and nods to him as briefly as politeness will allow. Carver does not nod back. She’ll learn. They always do.

Still, he can’t help but wonder what she would do if he removed his helmet right now.

Back in Basic, Thrask had explained helmets as a matter of practicality. “Your helmet hides you,” he’d said, pacing back and forth before the recruits. “With your helmet on, the mages don’t see you. You fade into the background, like a tapestry or a bowl of fruit.” Thrask had then rapped on a helmet sitting on his desk, the metal echoing hollowly in the crowded room. “Without it, though, they’ll always see you as a person.  They’ll never quite forget you’re there.”

Carver had been the only one in the room who’d thought Thrask was making a joke.

That’s just how the Order is, though, Carver now realizes: willfully blind, no sense of irony— an army’s worth of soldiers all pretending they’re just diplomats, even as – or especially as – they’re slicing off abominations’ heads.

Patrol duty should seem the least of Carver’s burdens, as it’s light duty even on the worst of days, but it never quite feels as much, and Carver often finds himself more tired after a shift on his feet than a mission in the field.

In some ways, though, trank duty is a refreshing change from normal patrols. The tranks don’t shy from him or his helmet. When they pass his post, their pace does not quicken. They don’t hold their breath when he is near. Nor do they stop talking when he enters a room, or flinch, or jump back from each other, blushing and pretending to be utterly engrossed in their entropic theory textbooks.

Tranks just _are_.

Two of them now walk toward Carver’s post, on their way back to their quarters. Neither acknowledges Carver’s presence.

One of them is elven. Dalish, actually. The brand clashes terribly with his vallaslin, a scar against the gently curving lines. Carver wonders what they represent, what forgotten god the designs pay homage to.

He watches them approach, watches them pass by, without a single blink in his direction. His heart begins to hammer in his chest.

“Messeres,” he suddenly calls out after them.

The Dalish trank turns around without any sense of urgency.

“May I be of service?” he says mildly.

Carver’s suddenly glad for his helmet.

“No,” he mutters. “Just being polite.”

“I see,” says the trank. With a flutter of robes, he turns around and keeps walking.

Carver lets out a long, low breath. Helmet or no, nothing is lonelier than trank duty.


	70. No Light VII: Bruises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Abuse

He finds Sulahnni in Alrik’s office, of all places, where she is slowly, methodically dusting the window sills. She does not peek over the ledge, down to the sun-dappled courtyards below, from which Carver can hear the staccato shrieks and laughter of young apprentices at play. Her gaze remains steady, engrossed; unflinchingly fixed on her faded red rag, as if it were the latest Orlesian penny-tome.

She’s a young woman now, a flower opened to the sun. A sharp nose, sharper ears peeking through long red locks, a perpetual bloom across her cheeks—she’s pretty, very pretty. 

She’d be prettier if she smiled.

“Hi—uh, hello. Good day,” he says, removing his helmet.

On the window pane, her hands still.

“Greetings,” she says mildly. Her voice is musical, lilting, a song without a melody. The fall of her bangs doesn’t quite hide the sunburst faded on her forehead.

She turns to him, and Sulahnni’s eyes remind Carver of the strange mirror he saw in Merrill’s house—glass without reflection, shine but no light within.

“Well, um.” He accidentally clangs his helmet against his thigh, and he starts flinches at the noise. Sulahnni does not. “I don’t know if you remember me—“

“I remember you, Carver,” she says. He can’t meet her gaze. “You spent many afternoons in the alienage. You liked to buy fruit from my sister. Once we played jacks in the Gallows courtyard.”

“Y-yes,” he says, waving his hands in front of him wildly, wondering if she’d planned to recount every interaction they’d ever had. “That’s me.”

Calmly, evenly, Sulahnni breathes in and out. Her nose whistles a little on every inhale. As she stands there, shoulders relaxed, unafraid, not quite looking at Carver, but not quite _not_ looking at him either, Carver suddenly, desperately misses his father.

“I-uh, heard about what happened. With the brand. I tried to find you before,” he lies, gaze falling to her shoes. Outside, a child squeals happily.  

“I have been here.”

“Right. Where else would you be? Um.” He coughs. Her shoes are clean, well-kept, no scuffs or mud marks. Apprentices her age tend to favor older boots, with well-eased leather, perfect for sneaking and creeping.  Sulahnni’s soles, however, are still thick. Functional. They look like they’d squeak when she walks. He coughs uncomfortably. “So. Um. How are you?”

“I am healthy,” she says. 

“That’s not what I mean.” He fingers the edge of his helmet and struggles for the right words, but they do not come. If only she’d blink, or look away, perhaps then he might be able to find some footing in this impossible conversation.

Sulahnni waits patiently for him to find his voice again.

“I mean, are you—“ He almost says _happy,_ then remembers himself. “Alright?” 

She stares at him blankly.

“I do not understand the question,” she says after several seconds.

Carver swallows. The heat, the stale air—it’s nearly unbearable. He wants to wave a hand in front of his face, or maybe in front of hers. “That is, is anyone hurting you? Mistreating you?”

“Alrik takes care of me,” she says slowly.

“Good.” He exhales, but does not feel relieved.

 _Tranquil can’t lie_ , he reminds himself. _They just don’t see the point of it._ But he can’t help but wonder.

Three weeks ago, he noticed the first bruise. At first, Carver tried not to see them. He tried to tell himself they were mere illusions, tricks of the light—the shadows of the Gallows bedeviling his tired eyes. But they didn’t go away. Now they’re all he can see. He now spends the long hours on trank patrol searching surreptitiously for the little yellow splotches peeking from behind high collars, or purple flesh revealed by a fluttering sleeve. He can concentrate on nothing else. It makes him feel a little like Emeric, seeing maleficarum in every nobleman’s estate; except his maleficarum are wrists and napes, and pale hollows of the neck.

Sulahnni is beautiful and young and whole. Carver sees no bruises on her flesh. But of course that could just mean hers are better hidden.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. 

“There is no need to apologize.” She begins to dust Alrik’s desk, moving the rag against the wood in clean, precise angles, no hurry, no deliberation, just motion.

“No, it’s just—“ With his free hand, he picks up the cow-headed statuette from Alrik’s desk. It’s even more hideous up close: giant docile eyes and softly curving cow ears, with a tiny woman’s waist, and swollen breasts that end in udder-like nubs. The Rivaini make strange fertility idols indeed. But at least it doesn’t have a sunburst tattoo on its forehead. “It’s my fault you’re, you’re like _this._ ”  

“It is no one’s fault but my own,” she says. “I chose to leave the Gallows unattended.”

He puts the fertility idol back down on the desk and peers at her. “But I was the one who convinced you to go.”

“I chose,” she repeats without any heat. She picks up the figurine and replaces it in its original orientation, carefully aligning the pedestal with the whorls on Alrik’s desk.  “My sentence was appropriate to my crime.”

“Maker, Sulahnni. You only were thirteen.”

Sulahnni resumes moving her pinkish rag back and forth on Alrik’s desk: in single parallel lines, never touching, never crossing. “What’s done is done,” she says blandly. “What more can be achieved by dwelling on the past?”

“But—don’t you blame me at all?”

The rag halts. She frowns, confused. “Why should I?” 

Carver cannot find the words to answer her. 

She holds up the dust cloth. “May I? I have chores to finish before Alrik returns.”

“Oh-oh, go ahead, I guess,” he says, waving.

She nods and turns toward a file cabinet. As she does so, she visibly winces, favoring one leg over the other. 

“Sulahnni,” he says softly. “Are you okay? What’s wrong with your hip?”

She does not answer.

The simplest way to stop her would be with his voice. But he forgets. He sees the red rag and thinks only of Bethany: Bethany’s nightmares, her laughter; her tears, her fireballs and frizzled hair and clever fingers. _Promise me, Carver,_ she’d whispered to him in the dark, on one of the bad nights, _if it’s down to just you and me, promise me you won’t let them take me alive._

He grabs Sulahnni’s wrist instead.

Instantly she stops moving. She does not turn. She does not flinch. She offers no resistance, no friction or consent or struggle.

She simply waits.

Carver realizes he could pretty much do whatever he wanted with her, and Sulahnni would not resist. He drops her wrist as if it burned.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and runs out of the room.


	71. No Light VIII: You Don't Always Need To FIght

_thunk_

Panting, Carver swipes the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his fist. He pushes a little too hard, however, and abruptly bright pinpricks of light dazzle at the edge of his vision.

Before him, the practice dummy sags off the pole. At this point, the sad creature is more burlap than stuffing, straw surrounding its base like broken twigs after a wind storm. The only bit of it with any integrity left is the head, although one of its button eyes dangles aimlessly down toward the flagstones.

Carver long ago removed his tunic and belt, feeling swaddled, claustrophobic. Sweat courses his bared flesh. His slick hands can barely clasp the fraying pommel.

Thighs wobbling, chest heaving, he raises his sword again. He stumbles his way toward the dummy, and slashes at the pole. 

_thunk_

_“My name is Sulahnni,” the girl says, holding out a dirty hand. She has red, straw-like hair, with a mouth too small for her teeth and pointed ears too long for her nose. Her freckled cheeks are dusted with pimples. She wears a patched dress, the snug sleeves stopping two inches above her delicate wrists._

_“Carver.” He smiles and clasps her forearm in the politest of Fereldan greetings (that doesn’t involve mabari slobber, that is). “Sulahnni,” he repeats, rolling the strange syllables around on his tongue. “That’s a very pretty name.”_

_“It means 'little song',” she replies. Curiously, she stares at their still linked arms. His palm so completely covers her forearm that his thumb and forefinger touch._

Carver staggers back from the pole.

“Shit,” he hisses, tasting blood. “Piss. Fuck.” He spits on the ground. “Shit.”

He lunges again.

_thunk_

When the blade connects, he feels the vibration through his fingers, his shoulders, his ribcage, his teeth.

_“I chose,” she says, older now, impossibly old. Her long, soft hair hides the faded welt on her forehead.  He can barely see it. He can see nothing else. “My sentence was appropriate to my crime.”_

_“Maker, Sulahnni.” He has the sudden urge to reach out and tuck that hair behind her ear just to see the shape of it again; to remind himself at least of who she once was—that she was indeed someone once, and not just an empty shell. “You were only thirteen.”_

_“What’s done is done.” Smoothly, unhurriedly, she pushes the rag along Alrik’s desk. “What more can be achieved by dwelling on the past?”_

The sword finally slips from his slick grasp. It clatters on the flagstones, drawing a few startled stares from a nearby squad of recruits at training.

Carver regards the fallen blade for many moments, trying to decide his next course of action. Fatigue is making his thoughts cloudy, indistinct. He feels like vomiting.

The sword lies cross-wise on the stone, half in the sunlight, half in shadow. He should pick the sword up, he realizes eventually.

“Fuck,” he grunts, and stands in place.

_Isabela’s arm drapes along his shoulders, warm and heavy; now it rubs his back as he heaves the contents of his stomach against the stairs of the Hanged Man; now it guides him like a rudder as he lurches past Varric’s closed door and the stain on the floor that looks like a starburst._

It shouldn’t be this hard to kneel. Just bend your knees, Carver. Bend your knees and pick up your sword. It’s not that hard. You don’t have to fight it. You don’t always have to fight it.

But it won’t solve anything. It doesn’t undo what’s been done.

It isn’t until Carver licks his lips that he realizes he’s been speaking out loud.

_“Promise me, Carver. If it’s down to just you and me, promise me you won’t let them take me alive.”_

_“I promise.”_

Carve shakes out his hands and squeezes his eyes shut against the sweat dripping into them. He turns his focus inward, trying to make an accounting of every burning muscle, every stinging bone; the aches in his blistered fingers, the tingle of sunburnt skin, the resistance and refusal of flesh against muscle against bone.  

But the pain dissolves, leeched away by fatigue, and eventually all he can feel is her limp wrist in his palm, no motion, no struggle, no fight, just existence, bodies leaning against each other unsupported, unhurried—leaves in the river, carried along by the current and the wind.

Stiff hips, an awkward pained gait, a rag on a windowsill—these have one meaning to those who can still dream, and another to those who cannot. But though a person may no longer dream, she still has thoughts; and while she may no longer have desires, she still has consent: things that can be agreed to and not agreed to; and a lack of fear is not the same thing as courage, or painlessness, or freedom.

Carver picks up the sword.

He lunges at the dummy again.

_thunk_


	72. No Light IX: Caught in the Spiderweb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SUPER DUPER TRIGGER WARNING: Non-con and abuse

Though it’s mid-day, no sunlight slants through the high windows in the Tranquil Quarters where Alrik keeps his office. What little Carver can see of the blue sky through the panes is pale, alien; like a painting of sky rather than the real thing.

The corner of a dormitory is perhaps a strange place to keep a working space, or it would be if the Tranquil were ever interested in anything other than work—or, for that matter, interested in anything at all; if they ever ran or laughed or played, or held idle conversations in the hallways. But there’s little use in wishing for the impossible, and as it is, the Tranquil Quarters are blessedly quiet, perfect for paperwork or number-crunching, and a good place for a man to go to collect his thoughts, assuming he has any worth having in the first place. 

To that last point, Carver’s not sure what he’s even doing here: Since the incident with Sulahnni a few days ago, his mind has been too scattered to concentrate on something as mundane as objections or conjectures, and his head has swirled with questions that defy words. What he wouldn’t give for Garrett’s wit, or even Varric’s; Carver feels now like he is all tongue and no speech; all thought and no action. 

All Carver knows is that he needs answers, and Alrik is the one in possession; he is spider in the web, suspended on the nexus of all threads. Exactly what he should say when he confronts Alrik, Carver can figure out later. He will, as Father used to say, cross that bridge when he burns it. 

Alrik’s door is closed. Carver leans his ear against the wood. Father had taught him that smart warriors didn’t ululate like fishwives when they stormed into battle; smart warriors kept their mouths shut, and their weapons ready, and they didn’t announce their presence until absolutely necessary. And while an office isn’t a battlefield, the principle is the same, especially when Carver feels much as he did the night before Ostagar, his heart drumming against his ribs like a drummerboy’s tattoo. 

Behind the wood he hears a muffled moan.

Carver forgoes knocking and pushes on the door. It isn’t locked.

Against Alrik’s desk leans a young recruit, whose name Carver hasn’t yet bothered to learn. He’s one of the Chantry stock, pimply, lean, with the shadow of a mustache darkening his upper lip. Barely even old enough to heft a sunshield.

One hand splays on a stack of papers, next to the cow-headed statuette. The other is tangled in long, red hair, the bobbing sway of which reveals the tips of pointed ears. Carver can’t see her face. He doesn’t need to.

For one horrible moment, Carver can’t move, can’t blink, can’t look away.

Then the door bangs against the wall. 

“Shit,” screeches the recruit, shoving her head away. She releases him with a wet pop. “This-this isn’t what it looks like.”

Carver hurls himself at the recruit. Their bodies collide, knocking over papers and chairs, and Carver pins him heavily against the wall. The boy grunts, and Carver hears the noise as if from far, far away.

“The fuck it isn’t,” he growls, lifting the recruit several inches off the floor. His elbow brushes a painting, which crashes to the ground.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the recruit babbles. “I know she’s Alrik’s. I won’t do it again. I won’t, I won’t. Don’t tell him. Please.”

_I know she’s Alrik’s._

Then he’s on the boy again, calloused fingers wrapped around that skinny throat, thumbs digging into the hollow spaces, the easily bruised flesh.

“Who said you could,” Carver says through clenched teeth. “Was it Karras? Cullen? Who?”

“No,” the boy chokes. “Told –nobody—didn’t—clear it.”

The recruit’s cheeks and throat have begun to turn a blotchy red. Carver pushes harder. He wants to see him turn purple, then black. Like a hurlock, or an ogre.

“You clear it with me,” Carver growls, then, gut sinking, he adds, “I’m first on the list.”

It was the right thing to say, as Carver feared it would be. The boy’s eyes widen. Panic sets in. Tears trickle down his cheeks. He looks young, too young, like a mewling infant.

“Plee—don—kill—me,” he gasps.

Carver releases him, and the boy bends over, hands on throat, gasping.

“S-sorry, I didn’t—“ He coughs wetly, gagging a little, his eyes on Carver, only Carver. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I should’ve asked, I’m sorry.”

“Get out,” Carver snarls. “And keep your prick out of other people’s things.”

The boy nods as best he can and stumbles out of the room, still bare assed, desperately trying to lace his breeches. As he rounds the door frame, his flaccid member whips in front of him like a limp tail.

Chest heaving, Carver turns, finally, because he can delay it no longer. Sulahnni stands there, level eyes, hair tangled, chin glistening. 

“Hello, Carver,” she says mildly.

Neither moves for many moments. Eventually he realizes that she is waiting.

For _him._

He swallows down bile. “Get back to your quarters,” he spits.

She starts to walk toward the door, but it’s not fast enough. Carver needs her to run, to flee, to sprint. To get away. Instead she strolls out of the chaos as if Alrik’s office were a Hightown promenade.

He grabs her arm. Her chin and lips are still wet.  

“I mean it,” he shouts at her, shoving her toward the door. “Just go. Lock your door. And don’t leave.”

She casts him one last blank look and disappears out the door.

Her quarters aren’t safe. He knows that. A room, a door, it isn’t the answer. It never has been. It’s all just part of the same spiderweb. All of it, the silken threads, leading back here, to the same place, the same person; to a pair of cold arachnid eyes, blank and calculating.

Carver does not think. No thoughts are left—only motion, only chaos and fight.

Instead he runs.

He does not know where Alrik is. It doesn’t matter.

Carver will find him.


	73. No Light X: Thoughtless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Violence

Carver finds Alrik in one of the training courtyards, supervising mid-day muster for the latest batch of recruits – Chantry kids, mostly; none of the Kirkwallers proper want to join anymore, and who can blame them?

As Karras inspects each of the recruits, Alrik stands to one side in a sun-slant, at ease, relaxed, like a lizard on a warm rock. He wipes sweat from his brow with a spotted hand. His lyrium-bright eyes glitter.

Carver’s fists stop shaking. His heart slows its restless patter. The answer he seeks reveals itself, like a vein of ore, or a sister’s blood soaking into the dirt; it is a road stretching between him and Alrik, made of curving flagstones, warm in the noonday sun.

He walks it.

Seventeen steps. Carver counts each one aloud.

_One. Two. Three._

“Ser Hawke,” says Alrik, his voice slithering across the courtyard. “Come to help inspect the—?”

His voice falters. 

_Nine. Ten. Eleven._

Carver pushes through the corner of the front line of recruits now, who fall back like waves receding from the shore. He is a stick dragged through a riverbank: the waters part, and close behind him. Karras is shouting something. Carver does not hear. Carver hears only water rushing in his ears, or maybe it is his own heartbeat, and his steps on the grey flagstones. 

Alrik does not move. He waits. Patiently.

_Fifteen. Sixteen._

Carver is just over an arm’s length away. Alrik’s eyes widen the tiniest amount. His pupils dilate.

He smiles.

Then Carver is upon him.

Carver’s fist first catches Alrik against the cheek, and he can feel the sick crunch of cheekbone and maybe his own knuckles. Alrik crumples and falls to the ground, his armor squealing. Carver leaps on him.

Fists. Blood. Bone. The metal protects, but Carver knows its weak points, the unprotected underbelly of the lizard, and connects with them, again and again. Sometimes he hits metal. He keeps hitting anyway. At some point, Alrik tries to lift his hands to defend himself or perhaps attempt to Smite Carver but Carver bashes his head against Alrik’s, once, twice, feeling the blood trickle, sticky and warm. Alrik goes limp in his hands. Carver tastes blood. He does not know whose it is.

He doesn’t stop to think, or process, or feel.  Thoughtless as a leaf on a river, carried away by the current. He is motion. He is action. He is struggle and fight. He is a golem, crafted in the dark spaces, made for this purpose only.

Carver feels hands scrabble at his back, his pauldrons. He shrugs them off. He slams Alrik’s arm against the ground, shattering his wrist. Blood everywhere, sweat everywhere, tears, in his eyes, in his mouth. The hands are back. More this time. Insistent. He grabs onto Alrik’s throat with slick fingers and squeezes, squeezes so tight, feeling the windpipe crush, watching his head purple like a bruise, the lips black and bloody like ogre-flesh, the broken teeth, a lolling tongue. Alrik is pulpy, exposed. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. Not until the bone is laid bare, and the emptiness within revealed; not until Alrik’s blood trickles through joint of every flagstone.

More hands. A force pushing him. He will not stop. Alrik. Only Alrik matters. Only retribution, and pain, and blood, and fire. He is the Tower of Ishal, the righteous fury of life and struggle; he is the Blight incarnate; he is Bethany’s blood on his mother’s hands.

Suddenly something heavy crashes on him, a mountain tumbling upon him. Someone has Smote him, knocking the sense out of his bones. Carver goes limp.

Mostly. His fingers still twitch, clinging to Alrik’s neck with the strength of the dead.

From far away he feels strong hands drag him away; he feels himself slide off the mass that once was Alrik; and he is empty, cold, a mirror with no reflection, no light of life within.


	74. No Light XI: In The Belly Of The Gallows

They haul Carver to the stockade, a dense cluster of rooms deep within the belly of the Gallows, dark spaces like an ant colony where no natural light reaches. Someone—maybe the same someone who Smote him, maybe a different someone; Carver is too dazed to tell—shoves him into a holding cell and closes the door.

Carver is weak, nauseated. They’ve clapped him in lyrium-branded manacles, specifically designed to snuff out his abilities and keep him disoriented—anyone who wears them feels the effect of being permanently Smote. Carver knows these well, as he’s used them before on blood mages—the ones who want to come back, who beg for a fresh start. He tests the bonds anyway, pressing his wrists against the metal, and nearly vomits from the effort.

It’s dark here. Impenetrable. Carver’s eyes do not adjust, because there’s nothing to adjust to: no torchlight, no staff fire, just blackness, warm and heavy. He breathes, in and out, and tries to count his inhalations; but soon he loses count and gives up.  Time, direction, self no longer have meaning. He is one with the nothingness. He has been swallowed whole.

After some time— it could be five minutes, or five hours—the blackness cracks, and a door opens, flooding the small room with light. Blinded, Carver winces against the pain. He hears three men enter. The door slams behind them.

More light, softer this time. Shading his eyes, Carver squints at the men. It is Cullen, and two other Templars, Wedge and Biggs. Bodyguards. Both of the men hold small glowing globes—lyrium torches. More lyrium. Always lyrium.

Carver closes his eyes and bows his head, shutting out the light once more.

“Prayer won’t help you now,” Cullen says.

“Sleep might, though,” Carver sighs.

Cullen steps forward, inches from Carver’s outstretched heel. With four men, the already small chamber becomes suffocating, claustrophobic, like a tomb.

Abruptly, Cullen draws his sword and pricks the point against Carver’s throat. Carver opens his eyes but does not move, does not flinch, even after he feels blood trickle down his clavicle and under his armor padding.

“I’m not possessed, if that’s what you think,” he sighs.

“I feared as much,” says Cullen wearily. He sheaths his sword. “Knight-Templar Hawke. Explain yourself.”

Instead of answering, Carver flexes one hand in front of him, testing it. Yes, a few fingers are definitely broken.

“Explain yourself,” repeats Cullen, trying to keep the betrayal out of his inflection and failing. Fereldan voices are like Fereldan complexions, thinks Carver—no complexity, no artifice. No secrets. No wonder he and his countrymen make such terrible Diamondback players.

“What is there to explain,” says Carver. His voice is thick, phlegmy. He’s surprised at how tired he sounds. Maybe he’s been here longer than he thought.

 “You attacked a fellow Templar, in front of twenty recruits, without warning—Maker, without even saying a word. It took four men to pull you off of him. _Four._ ” Frowning, Cullen waits for a reaction that Carver does not give. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s treason, Hawke.”

“Mutiny,” interjects Carver. “Technically.”

Cullen makes a frustrated, growling noise, like two mabari tugging on the same rope. “Already they want to string you up,” he continues, as if Carver hadn’t spoken. “So if I were you, I’d start talking.”

Carver narrows his eyes. Cullen is Fereldan. He might have the others fooled, he might even have convinced himself, but Carver knows Cullen will always be a Fereldan, a countryman of hopeless causes, a man of mud baked into clay. Carver hates him for pretending to be anything but.

“Sod off,” he growls.

“This isn’t Cailan’s Army, Hawke, and you aren’t a deserter,” replies Cullen. He squats to Carver’s level.  “They don’t just hang traitors here. They wring you dry of blood and lyrium first.”

Carver refuses to be afraid. Let death come. He is a golem, purpose served, empty and unafraid.

“Carver,” Cullen says, and Carver finally looks up. His commanding officer’s face is cold, stony, and the low light casts into contrast every wrinkle, every shadow, like mountain ridges against a moonlit horizon. “Don’t play stupid. Your life’s on the line here.”

He thinks of Sulahnni, the long red hair, the pointed tips of her ears, the wet chin.

“How long,” Carver mutters at last.

Cullen frowns. “What’s that?”

“How long,” Carver swallows down the bile in his throat, the lyrium-hazy nausea of forming words, of remembering how to think and process and feel again, “how long has this been going on?”

“Has _what_ been going—“

“Don’t play stupid with _me_ either,” Carver suddenly roars. He strains at the manacles, tries to get to his feet. Wedge and Biggs take a step back, but Cullen does not flinch. Carver sags back to the floor, stomach pitching treacherously. “How long have you given that spider his free choice of meat?”

“Hawke, you’re not making sense.”

“The Tranquil,” he hisses. “Did you know what he does to them? What he—allows others to do?”

Cullen’s face falls, and along with it any hope Carver ever had of Alrik’s depravity being an isolated event, or a contained and well-kept secret, and not a spiderweb, its silken tendrils stuck to every corner of the Gallows. Cullen knew. Even in the dark, Fereldan complexions do not lie.

And if Cullen knew, everyone knew. Of course. The rumors, the dark looks. Carver is only a newcomer here, the outsider still struggling to fit in. Nobody would have told him, or they would have assumed he knew already. Or even that he was in on it.

No wonder he hadn’t seen much of Moira in the past two months.

“You knew,” Carver mutters. “All this time you knew, and what? You fed him tranks so he wouldn’t turn on the others, is that it?”

“It’s not that simple,” says Cullen. His voice is heavy, wretched. It sags on the vowels like a fraying rope bridge. “They’re tranquil, Hawke. They don’t process—things the same way. They are special cases.” 

“He was a viper and you harbored him in your midst. You _protected_ him. You gave him _dinner_ ,” snarls Carver. Like oil catching fire, rage snakes through his blood. “But it doesn’t matter anymore,” he says, grinning. “It’s over now.”

Cullen’s gaze falls to his Carver’s manacles. “You can’t go around murdering everyone you disagree with, Hawke.”

Carver shakes his head. “As if rape were a matter of opinion.”

“I don’t approve of it either,” Cullen shouts, voice like steel. “I never have. But there’s an order to these things, a way. If you had objections, you should have come through the chain of command, and not taken matters into your own hands. It doesn’t work like that. You were a soldier once. You should understand this.”

“When a man pimps out tranks like he’s Madame Lusine, and everyone around him just lets him,” growls Carver, “then the chain of command is broken.”

Cullen grimaces.

“I think we’re done here,” he says, rising to his feet. “Your tribunal is set for the morning after next. You will remain in this cell until then. I suggest you use that time to come up with a more convincing argument as for why Meredith shouldn’t execute you on the spot.”

He turns to leave. Wedge and Biggs open the door and file through the streaming brilliant light. Cullen turns to follow them. He is an outline against the brilliance, no features, just shadow.

“You can pretend all you want that this is a Circle of free men,” Carver calls after him, “but the Gallows is still a prison. It always has been. It always will be.”

“That doesn’t make you its warden,” says Cullen softly, half-turning, “or its executioner.”

Carver snorts. “That’s exactly what we are.” 

“Then you make a poor one,” says Cullen. “Alrik survived.”

Then he leaves, the door closing behind him like a coffin lid.


	75. No Light XII: Leniency

Meredith leans over the podium. Her armor catches the slant of a sunbeam, and the silverite becomes as bright as a sunburst; the long lines of her face turn bronze, like the overseer statues in the Gallows courtyard.

“Do you have anything to add in your defense, Knight-Templar Hawke, that might convince the court to offer leniency?”

Her eyes beg him to answer. She grips the edge of the podium, her knuckles rigid and white.

“I am sorry,” Carver says evenly, “that I didn’t kill the bastard when I had the chance.”

Meredith leans back. The light in her eyes is gone now, though her hands have not relaxed. She purses her lips into a tight, bare line.

“Then the court has no choice but to levy the following sentence,” she declares. She lifts a piece of paper and reads, her voice distant and cold, as if she were giving an account of the city’s tax records and not the measure of a guilty man’s life.

Carver wonders if Meredith feels as betrayed by him as he does by her. He doubts it.

“The court hereby strips you of your rank and sunshield,” she says, pronouncing each consonant crisply, perfectly. “You will remain on probation within the Order for the next 36 months, or until a tribunal of your peers has consented to remove this status.”

Carver nods. Probation means he’ll be back to recruit wages and curfews, not to mention daily check-ins. No field detail, that’s a given, and probably more drudge work like mess duty. But three years isn’t so bad; Keran received ten when they suspected him of demonic possession, and somehow he still makes it down to Lowtown twice a month.

“You will serve the next thirty days in solitary confinement,” Meredith continues. Her eyes briefly flicker to Carver, gauging his response, and when she finds none, she sighs and looks back to her paper, “after which you will be subject to weekly mental evaluations for the remainder of your service to the Order. This will go into effect immediately after this sentencing is concluded.”

A murmur courses the packed courtroom behind him, and once Meredith looks away, he allows himself a frown. Solitary’s a bitch, no doubt about that, but thirty days—well, recruits had gotten more than that just for stealing food from mess to feed their families. Why such leniency on his behalf?

Carver wonders if it’s because of his weapons training with Meredith—but no, she looks as disgusted with this sentence as he.

“Finally,” she says, narrowing her eyes, “you will serve 1,000 hours of community service, the nature of which is yet to be determined.”

 _Community service?_ The courtroom becomes a roar of indistinguishable voices and outrage, and Carver flexes his hands as best he can, hot flesh straining against the cool, iron manacles. Thirty days in the hole and a few years’ community service for nearly killing a man? What the bloody hell is going on?

Meredith slams a gavel down on the podium once, twice, and the crowd falls silent. She glares stonily around the room, as if she plans to whip each and every bystander personally.  

“Bailiff,” she snaps, “Please escort the defendant from the court.”

The bailiff is a giant mustachioed Templar with a small head and meaty neck; Carver has played Diamondback with him on occasion. But as he takes the lead for Carver’s manacles, he makes no indication of recognizing Carver now. Slowly they turn and start shuffling toward the door.

Carver flinches when he sees the large chamber is standing room only, with recruits and off-duty guards lining the walls. Half the Gallows, it seems, crammed itself in here to watch Carver’s court martial—which for some reason had been open to witnesses—and he feels like a circus oliphant, expected to do tricks.

“Carver!” he hears a familiar voice gasp. “Mother?” Carver spots her in the front row, tiny, red-eyed, her soft hands weakly steepled before her mouth. She looks as terrified as she did that day when he burst through the farmstead door, warning his family of the advancing darkspawn horde.   




Aveline stands beside her, with one arm wrapped around her shoulders solidly, as if she’s warding off arrows or sword blows. Her jaw is set like marble, and she refuses to meet Carver’s gaze.

Leaning on Aveline is—Garrett. 

He looks like Father now, but not Father as he was in the years of their youth but just as he was right at the end, before the Blight took him; all wrinkles and grey hair, and sagging skin, a frail giant, a lifetime of failures and heartaches etched into his face.

Their eyes meet, and Carver suddenly understands everything: why the sentence was so lenient, why the court martial was public, why he’s even still alive now. _Garrett._ It could be no other reason. Garrett, the legendary explorer, the richest man in Kirkwall; Garrett, friend of the Chantry, who’d donated who knows how much coin over the years to keep Templar eyes directed elsewhere. Garrett, his brother, had paid off Meredith to save Carver’s life.

Carver looks away, furious, ashamed.

Father had always taught them that nothing was more important than family, but what he hadn’t mentioned, what he’d charitably left out of his lessons, was how cruel that obligation was; how wretched and mean; and that nothing, no wound or heartbreak, could ever hurt so much as a brother’s kindness. Carver knows now that he will never be more than Garrett’s greatest disappointment, his secret mess to be swept under the rug. He is the chain holding both of them back, and the time has long past to set each other free.  

Carver lifts his chin, bracing himself, and walks down the aisle without looking back.


	76. No Light XIII: Welcome to the Hole

__

The door opens on a small, square chamber. Unlike the rest of the Gallows, which is a maze of individual bricks, flagstones and grout, everything inside this room is grey and smooth. Magic-carved. A ledge juts from the wall, just long enough to accommodate a supine averaged-sized man, or a tall elf; it won’t be long enough for Carver. Another raised block in the corner of the room has a hole cut out of it: his chamberpot.

There is nothing else in here: no windows, no cracks in the wall, no loose stones. It is barely twice the length of Carver’s body. He’ll be able to outstretch his arms, but that’s it.

“Welcome to the hole,” says the guard Templar, a man Carver has never seen before.

There are four other rooms in the same corridor as this one, and they passed six similar corridors to reach this one, but Carver does not doubt that the isolation ward, the “hole”, extends much, much further.

Outside the chamber, he could hear the sounds the other prisoners snoring, yelling, pissing, mumbling gibberish. Inside the chamber, though, he can hear only his own breath, and that of the guards.

“Quiet in here,” he mutters.

“It’s good for prayer,” says the other guard Templar, a woman. She unshackles the lyrium-damped manacles. The first guard, Carver knows, is just behind him, ready to Smite should he attack. Down here, the prisoners might be isolated, but at least the guards are posted in twos.

“You will remain in this cell 23 hours a day,” recites the woman. “You will receive one hour a day of exercise time in the exercise yard, rain or shine. Twice a day, you will receive meals through a slot in your door.” She gestures back to the door, in which he can see no such slot. He looks back to her, confused. “Trust me, it’ll be there,” she says with a shrug. “It’s magic.”

“At least it’s good for something,” he says.

The guard nods solemnly. “Do you understand all that I have told you?”

Carver looks around. Somehow the chamber is lit, but Carver can see no source, natural or otherwise. It is cold, bleak: Illumination, yes, but not light.

He points up toward the ceiling. “Does the light ever go out?”

“No,” she says.

“Do I get a book to read?” He cocks his head. “Paper to write on?”

“No.”

“A ball to bounce?”

“No.”

“Then what am I supposed to do all day?”

“I already told you,” she says wearily. Carver gets the impression she’s had this conversation many times before. “Pray.”

Carver swallows. “What if I need something?”

“Your needs will be met. But you will have no contact with us or your fellow inmates directly. Do you understand all that I have told you?” she repeats, this time more severely.

Carver looks at the ledge. “A blanket?”

“The isolation chambers are magically sustained at the appropriate temperature for each prisoner,” says the guard. “You will have no need of blankets. Do you understand—“

“Yes,” he interrupts irritably. “Yes, I understand.”

“Then your next thirty days starts now, Serrah Hawke,” she says, closing the door.

As it closes, the door vanishes, blending seamlessly back into the featureless wall—magic again, he suspects, or perhaps dwarven craftsmanship. It doesn’t matter.

Carver stares at where the door was for many seconds. Or maybe minutes. Or maybe neither.

“Hey, wait,” he says.

He listens.

He hears only the rapid thrumming of his heartbeat, his juddering breath.

“Wait. I wasn’t ready to start yet.”

He steps toward where the door was, tries to trace what he remembers of its outline in the wall. Panic flutters in his chest when he realizes he has forgotten the hinges. Or were there hinges? He can’t remember. He squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to tamp down the urge to scream. 

He walks over to his bed ledge. Four steps. He has long legs. He sits on it. Even with all his muscles and callouses, the edges are hard, painful against the backs of his knees.

He extends one leg, holds it outstretched as long as he can, then the other.

What if the Blight spreads to the Marches? What if the Qunari revolt, and burn the city, slaughtering all its civilians? What if the mages pull a Starkhaven, and burn the Gallows to the ground? What will happen to him?

Maybe it’s already happened. How long has he been in here? A few minutes? An hour? It couldn’t have happened yet. That’s preposterous. It couldn’t have. Could it?

“Wait,” he says, voice wavering. “Wait. Please.”


	77. No Light XIV: The First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the original Notes (from tumblr): 
> 
> The parallelism to “You Don’t Always Need to Fight” in today’s update is intentional. Whether it works or not is your call, of course, but I do think that chapter and this one are twins, in a sense, and work best when taken together.

_thunk_

Hands splayed on the smooth rock wall, Carver bangs his forehead against where the cell door once was. Where he thinks it was. Where it never was. Hinges. No hinges. Slot. No slot. Wishful thinking, all of it. Once upon a time there was a door here, and Carver walked through it. Wait. No. That’s not how the story begins. It begins: _No shit, there I was—and there it was: a door._

_thunk_

If he hit his head hard enough, Carver had figured, if he could just draw enough blood, they’d be forced to come in to heal him. They’d have to take him out of here. The door would reopen, _no shit,_ and then he could jump up and run out of it: out of the hole, out of the Gallows, out of the entire Blighted Marches. Just run and never look back. Running, after all, is what he’s good at, what he was trained to do since birth. Once upon a time there was a man here. Now there is only his bootprint in the dust.

_thunk_

But he couldn’t do it. He tried. He wanted to. He needed to. But he couldn’t. A lifetime of inflicting pain on others, and he can’t even bash his own head in.

Of course that doesn’t mean he can, or wants to, stop hitting the wall. The pain feels good. The pain _feels._ Feedback, connection—this is a conversation, human nerve to magical stone, a rejoinder, a response. Once upon a time, a man hit his head against a wall and his forehead hurt. It’s the funniest joke Carver has ever made.

_thunk_

Forty-five _thunks_ ago, Carver took off his jerkin and trousers. He’d felt hot, so very, very hot. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He could feel his heart stutter and lurch, and forget its own beat.

At first, he’d wondered if it was just him, just the panic settling in. But no, it couldn’t be. The guards had to have magically increased the temperature in the room as torture. Revenge. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The guards are part of Alrik’s inner circle, and now they can take their vengeance. Or—no, maybe they are secret Coterie agents, who’ve infiltrated the Gallows to repay the sting of Athenril’s indentured sword. No, the guards are hurlock sympathizers. Mythallen.  Free Kirkwallers. Orlesians.

Or worse.The guards know about Garrett. It must be that. They’ve already taken him in. Even as Carver rots in this cell, they’re sticking the brand to Garrett’s forehead. _No shit,_ they’re turning his big brother Tranquil right now. _No shit,_ he’s screaming as they hold him down. _No shit,_ the skin sizzles as they rob him of his dumb jokes and his broken edges and a magpie smile that Carver loves as much as he envies. Now it’s gone forever.

Once upon a time when Carver was ten, Garrett said _I feel safe around you, brother,_ and slammed him to the ground with a Fist of the Maker. Now Carver is twenty-two and Garrett is dead.

_thunk_

Carver left his boots on. Those will never come off, no matter how hot it gets, no matter how many brothers they trank. A man’s insanity has its limits, and even now he still remembers the first lesson, the only lesson that ever mattered: _You always keep your boots on, son. You never know when you’ll need to run._

Carver has spent so much of his life running. A life on the road. A life as a road. He knows nothing else.  All he ever wanted was a destination. All he ever got was more road.

Carver always thought he was strong. Resilient. When his father died, he didn’t cry. When Bethany died, he didn’t stop running. But Carver is nothing but a pair of boots in motion, a sword being swung, a tower falling to the ground. He is the ordinary child. The spare son. The twin left behind. No friends, only family, everywhere family—family he was born into, families he’d collected, families taken from him, always taken from him, in the end.

Once upon a time, Carver thought he was alone.

Now, _no shit,_ he truly is.

_thunk_


	78. No Light XV: The Exercise Yard

The exercise yard is a featureless grey compartment about the length of two ponies. There aren’t any balls here, or pull-up bars or practice dummies; just more stone, streaked with rainwater tracks and soot.

What makes this a yard and not a room is that above there is no ceiling: the walls extend twenty or thirty feet and end in a large iron grate. Through the grate is sky. Sometimes it is blue. Other times it is night. Carver likes it best when the sky is cloudy—the monochrome is comforting, familiar, and he likes watching the undulating greyness go by. He finds shapes in it. A windmill. An oliphant. Vallaslin.

Carver feels obligated to exercise in the exercise yard, to fulfill its function, or maybe just his; so even though he doesn’t have a sword, he still runs through the assortment of training drills he learned from a lifetime of martial service. Push-ups. Lunges. Leaping strikes. Once he tried to practice his Templar skills, but he just got a splitting headache instead. Maybe the walls are lyrium-damped. Maybe he’s just a broken Templar.

Sometimes going to the exercise yard scares him, especially when the sky is blue. He has to yell at himself like a drill instructor to force his feet through the door – the exit that isn’t an exit – and into the yard under that blue sky. He wonders what would happen if he just decided to not go, to stay in his cell all day instead. Tomorrow he’ll test it, he thinks. Tomorrow. Not today.

He counts days now by when the door opens to the exercise yard. Seven times. Seven days. Time itself is meaningless in the hole, of course: Day, night, hour, second – it’s all just a long distant memory, a luxury of the living.  But Carver can’t quite shake his need to mark time’s passage. He’d be happier if he could, he knows, but he always has clung to certain fairytales, like a stubborn mabari to a bone.

On the seventh day—a Blue Sky day—something falls from the sky.

It takes a full minute to slant to the ground, swaying back and forth in air currents of its own creation.  It lands in the corner of the exercise yard. Carver tries to ignore it, but he can’t. He tries to avoid it, but he can’t do that either. He waits for someone to come in and take it away. But nobody comes.

Eventually curiosity overtakes him. He walks over to it. It’s a vhenadahl leaf, carried on who knows what gales across the alienage and the bay and even the Gallows courtyards to land here, in the corner of his exercise yard. Green, firm, it looks freshly-plucked, as if someone had torn it from the tree expressly for this flight. 

“You’re a long way from home,” he says, his voice raw, gravelly. “But aren’t we all.”

He watches the leaf for a few more heartbeats. It could be a trick. A trap. It could be Taint-ridden, or carry the plague, or a pox. It could be magicked or poisoned.

He picks it up anyhow. In his hands it is silky. Strong. It still smells like dirt, and life.

He waits.

He doesn’t feel sick, or Tainted, or poisoned. And nobody comes into the yard to take it from him. Carver begins to entertain the possibility that the guards might not actually know about the leaf’s presence. That there is something left in his world that is uncontrolled and wild.

The thought scares Carver. It reminds him of that awful first night, when he screamed and wept and hurled himself against his stone cage. But that wasn’t him. That was another man, a man who didn’t realize how harmful his own mind could be. That part of Carver is gone now. Like a candle it burned itself out, leaving only the cooled wax, formed in the shape of its holder. He is safe now.  Protected.

“Come with me?” he asks. It doesn’t answer. It’s just a leaf. Carver knows that, but he doesn’t care. He asks anyway, because he clings to that too: small politenesses, whatever conversations he can get.

He slips it in his sock, just in case the guards are watching, and resumes his push-ups, though for some reason they’re harder now. Maybe the weight of the leaf is throwing off his balance.

Maybe the leaf is a message, from his mother, or from Merrill.

Maybe it isn’t.

He doesn’t know which possibility scares him more.

After a time, the door re-opens. Carver does not stay in the yard. He takes the leaf with him, though, and steps back into his cell, heavier than when he first left it.


	79. No Light XVI: The Leaf

“I’m back,” he says to the empty cell. “And I found something.”

Carver sits on the bed that isn’t a bed and withdraws the leaf from his sock. He lays the flat, broad blade against his legs like a book to be read, and regards it curiously—waiting, perhaps, or just collecting his thoughts. In here, they amount to the same thing.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe someone left it there on purpose?”

Idly he traces the long, thin veins with his forefinger, but no foul magic springs forth from its empty channels, no poisons or Taints or other insidious threats.   




“Well, at first I thought it might be— _them,_ “ he says, lowering his voice to a whisper and furtively glancing toward the wall where sometimes appears the door, the exit that isn’t an exit. Then he straightens his back, sucks in a deep breath and smooths the leaf against his knees. “But now I’m not so sure. It could be from Mother, or, or—“

Carver wants to say her name—he tries to—but his tongue sticks on the first vowel and refuses to move further. Just as well. There’s hope, and then there’s just torturing himself. “Moira,” he says instead.

His finger is so large against the leaf, so fleshy and substantial. It seems strange that it should still retain so many callouses, obsolete as they are here—they’re just reminders that this body once belonged to another man, a lifetime ago.

Then his breath catches in his throat. His finger stops its restless journey.

“Don’t joke like that,” he mutters. “You know Garrett’s been made Tranquil.”

He frowns.

“He might as well be. Who _knows_ what I’ve been saying in here in my sleep?”

Carver narrows his eyes.

“I said, _don’t joke like that_.” He slams one palm against the bed that isn’t a bed; it thunks dully against the cool rock. “She’s _fine_. She can take care of herself.” He sighs then, his anger evaporating as quickly as it had come, and he is emptiness once more. “Certainly better than I ever could.”

Carver is silent a moment, then he begins to peer closely at the leaf, inspecting it. The veins look like canals fanning its surface. Back in Lothering, Father had kept a map of Wycome hanging on the wall of his study; the leaf’s veins remind Carver of those long afternoons he spent staring at the yellowed parchment, wondering why Father thought it special enough to frame.

“Maybe,” he says slowly, unconvinced. “But if the alienage were on fire, how come the leaf doesn’t have any scorch marks? It looks like someone simply plucked it off the tree.” He frowns. “Should I keep it in water or something?”

Then he sighs heavily.

“I guess you’re right.” He holds the leaf up by its stalk. “Sorry, little guy. You came to the wrong place. There’s no sunlight in here for you.”

The leaf doesn’t talk back.

“Yes, I’m talking to a _leaf_ ,” Carver snaps. “And if you hadn’t noticed, I’m also talking to a voice in my head. Beggars can’t be choosers, Beth.”

Carver is quiet again, rage receding, like waves crashed on the surf and now retreating. He has felt more emotion today than he has in a long time, and the strain of it has tired him considerably.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, exhausted, ready for a nap. “Come back. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Morosely, he twirls the stalk in his fingers for a few long heartbeats.

Then Carver smiles softly, secretively.

“You ever notice how this looks like a sunshield?” He pauses, listening. “Oh, I forget. You never saw the alienage or the tree. Well, it does. The exact shape. All it needs is a tiny flaming sword, and the tree-ants could form their own Circle. Stand firm, noble brethren!” He warbles in a high, tiny voice, holding the leaf as he would a shield. “Blessed are those who stand before the aphids and do not falter!”

Ringing in his ears he hears laughter, humming like the echoes of a bell long after it has been struck, and he grins. He knows it’s just a memory. He knows it’s just his own longing. But he wants it so badly, needs it like air or water or sunshine, that he’s willing to blur the lines between memory and reality just to have a single moment of that laughter, _her_ laughter, back to lift his spirits once more. 

“I didn’t even have to dance a jig this time,” he murmurs.

He cups the leaf in his hands, like water, or precious jewels.

“I don’t know. Keep it, I guess. You don’t mind, do you?” He smiles, relaxing, feeling lighter than he has in a long time. “Good.”

Then he laughs, the sound exploding from deep within his belly like a volcano.

“No, I’m not going to _name_ it,” he says, gasping for air. “I’m not that far gone, you know.”


	80. No Light XVII: The Good Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To hear an excellent reading of this chapter, check out tempus-teapot's voice meme here: http://tempus-teapot.tumblr.com/post/18679505857/id-say-this-is-for-the-voice-meme-but-its-one

The man wakes up.

The man takes a morning piss. He stretches. Twenty five times to the left, twenty-five times to the right. Once the man accidentally did twenty-six stretches on the left side, and the rest of the day was all wrong after that. That was a bad day.

He does morning drills. Push-ups. Lunges. Squats. Jumps. Dips off the bed-that-isn’t-a-bed. Eighty-six exercises in all, fifty reps each. One by one.  He does not lose count. Once he did. That too was a bad day.

The man eats breakfast. Breakfast is usually gruel and a pitcher of water. It takes him thirty-six bites to finish the gruel, unless there’s an egg in it. He separates out the egg. Eggs are eaten last. It takes three bites to eat an egg. Two bites for the white, one bite for the yolk. That is thirty-nine bites. He wishes it would be forty, because forty is easy to remember. But unfortunately, life isn’t about round numbers.

When he finishes, the man places the bowl by the wall that is sometimes a door. He waits for the slot to appear, and for the bowl to vanish. Sometimes he misses when it happens; he blinks, or he looks away at the wrong moment. Those are also bad days.

When the bowl is gone, he says aloud, “That will be me someday.” The words have no meaning, of course. They’re just words, a mantra to be said, like a blessing over food. The man does not know why he says it, only that he has said it for as long as he can remember, and if he doesn’t say it, then today too will be a bad day. 

Then the man takes out his leaf and counts the number of veins. His leaf has one hundred and twenty six veins on it. Big ones, small ones, all fanning out like riverways, or tattoos on a face. He has to count every day. Not that it changes. But he might forget, or have counted wrong. It just needs to be done.

Then the man prepares for mid-day muster. First he takes off his clothes. He brushes his jerkin clean—which is easy, since in the cell, he normally doesn’t wear it—and his trousers. Sometimes he fixes holes by unraveling a thread from the hem and pushing it through the coarse fabric with his fingers and a fingernail. It’s painstaking work, but he does it because he has to. He spit-shines his boots, and de-lints his socks, and with the water left over from breakfast, he does his best to remove any stains on his smallclothes or trousers, or at least blur their lines so they look like part of the fabric. He spares a little water for his face and hair. It’s important to look clean and orderly for muster.

Then the man puts his clothes back on, piece by piece. Smalls. Socks. Trousers. Boots. Jerkin. He brushes his hair flat with his hand.  Then he salutes, and stands at attention.

He waits for the door to open.

When it does, the exit-that-is-not-an-exit opens into the exercise yard. The man walks around the yard two hundred times. Then he walks the opposite way another two hundred times, because sometimes life _is_ about round numbers. He allows himself until the count of 500 to stare up through the grate, and pick out shapes in the clouds. If there are no clouds, he stares at the sky anyway until the count is over. Then he repeats his morning’s training drills until the door re-opens.

He walks back into his cell. He takes off his jerkin, and sometimes, if he’s feeling warm, his trousers. Never his boots. His boots stay on. You never know when you need to run.

After the exercise yard is the hardest time of the day, because that’s the least scheduled. Sometimes he just talks to his sister for a time. Sometimes he recites all the words of Elvish he remembers, or the Banns of Ferelden, or the duty roster of the Lothering Templars. Sometimes he recites the story of Wrinkles, three times in succession, to see how many details and words he can match up from each retelling. He does not recite the Chant of Light, because the Maker has abandoned his children. The Maker can sod off.

After he is done, the man takes out his leaf again. He throws it in the air and tries to guess where it will land. He’s very bad at guessing. He does this one hundred times, so it’s easy for him to calculate his success rate. He tries to beat yesterday’s score. Sometimes he doesn’t. Those are the bad days too.

Then it’s dinner time. Another bowl of food appears. Usually it is bread and stew, or fish and rice. He likes stew days. Fish days make his cell stink. It takes him forty-seven bites on stew days, thirty-three on fish days. Once it was gruel, with no egg. But it took him twenty-seven bites to finish, not thirty-six, and he spent the rest of the evening morose, wondering how he’d gone so wrong.

When he finishes, the man places the bowl by the wall that is sometimes a door. “That will be me someday,” he says, his blessing for the meal, his thanks to the divine.

Then the man practices his Elvish some more. He tries to tell the story of Wrinkles in Elvish. If he doesn’t know a word, he barks it instead; that way he doesn’t make it up. Some things have to be sacred. Some things have to be true.

Then the man does a few evening stretches. Toe touches, side bends, wrist and ankle rolls. By this point he is tired, exhausted from his day’s exertions. He welcomes sleep.

The man kneels before the bed that isn’t a bed and clasps his hands.

“These things are true,” he prays. “I am Carver Hawke. I am from Lothering, in the country of Ferelden. I have a brother named Garrett, a mother named Leandra, and an uncle named Gamlen. My father’s name was Malcolm. My sister’s name was Bethany. I am in love with Merrill. I once set an oliphant free. I am in solitary confinement for thirty days, because I nearly killed a man. His name is Otto Alrik. He will not be forgotten. I am Carver Hawke. These things are true.”

The man then goes to sleep, and has nightmares from another man’s life. He dreams of a battlefield soaked in entrails; of hurlocks chewing on screaming soldiers. Or he dreams of his sister’s blood turning the Fereldan mud tacky and crimson. Sometimes he dreams of the brand on a brother’s forehead, or behind red hair; or he dreams of a frail giant of a man, old beyond his years, coughs racking his entire body; or he dreams of a charred windmill, its fans slowly wheeling in the breeze.

But sometimes he dreams of a beautiful woman, pointed ears, braids in her hair, dew glistening on her bare feet. Green eyes like home. With a smile, she holds out her hand to him, and he cannot take it. Those are the worst dreams of all.

The man wakes up.

The man takes a morning piss. He stretches. Twenty-five times on the left side. Twenty-five on the right. Morning drills. Do not lose count. That would be a bad day.


	81. No Light XVIII: Across the Threshold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently while I was writing this whole solitary sequence, I forgot to factor in that Carver should’ve been getting lyrium as part of his daily rations. So. Uh. Let’s just assume it’s mixed into the gruel. Mmm. Lyrium gruel. Does a body good.

The man wakes up. He takes his morning piss. He stretches. Twenty-five times to the left. Twenty-five to the right.

But something is wrong.

Throughout his morning drills, it nags at him, an itch he cannot scratch. His lunges are lethargic, like wading through marshland. His legs refuse to squat more than halfway. Each push-up makes him ever more aware of all that rock pressing down above his head. The man is heavy, calcified. Something is falling somewhere and he does not know if or how he can catch it.

Breakfast comes. It is an egg day. Thirty-nine bites. Just as it was the day before, and the day before that. But the certainty of numbers does not settle his unease. Something is still wrong.

He places the empty bowl by the door.

He does not say, “That will be me someday.”  Nor does he dare take out his leaf and count its veins. Today is not a day for idle frivolities, he decides, not with this ache in his gut. 

So instead he sits, back rigid against the smooth wall, and waits for the exercise yard. He counts backwards and forwards, and recites the things that are true, over and over again, but the anxiety only worsens, until his hands begin to shake and the only way he can keep from screaming is to gnaw on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

“I am Carver Hawke,” he says for the fifth time when suddenly the door re-appears in the wall, as it always does, without ceremony or sound, as if it had been there all along. But when the door swings wide, it does not open onto the exercise yard, but on darkness—and a man.

There is a man in the doorway.

There is never a man in the doorway.

It is a ghost. A demon. A trick of the light. He doesn’t know whether to attack it or embrace it. It can’t be real. It can’t be a man. He is the only one. There is no other, except those of his own making.

“C’mon, then,” says the man who is not a man.

The prisoner does not stand. “Who are you?”

“Your Warden, asshole,” he laughs. “Your Bride and Savior.”

The prisoner peers at the man, this hodgepodge of muscle and follicles and sweat stains, and he swears that they’ve met before, though the context eludes him. Maybe it’s just the voice he remembers: rumbling, bold, too loud for such a small space; it makes his world seem cramped, insignificant; it threatens to pull down the stone walls down around it.

“Get up,” the Warden says. “Put your clothes on. Time to go.”

The man shakes his head. “No.”

“No?” The Warden laughs even harder, his beard quivering from the exertion. Eyeing the Warden’s cheeks, the prisoner gingerly feels his own chin. Hair is there, to his surprise, coarse and thick. It is—wrong, the prisoner concludes, something even more unnatural than a man suddenly appearing in the exit that is not an exit. “Go petition the Knight-Commander to move in if you're keen. But in the meantime, you gotta get. We need this space for others.”

The prisoner still does not move.

“C’mon, don’t be stupid,” the Warden sighs. “Your time’s up. You’re free to go.”

“Free.” The prisoner rolls the word around on his tongue, tests the sounds against his teeth and lips. _Free. I once set an oliphant free_ , he thinks.

“Yes, free.” The Warden smiles uneasily, but not particularly unkindly. “Let’s go. Don’t make me drag you out, Hawke.”

The prisoner flinches. _I am Carver Hawke_ , he remembers. This is something that is true. If the Warden knows this, then perhaps he knows the rest, and the prisoner can trust him after all.

He stands.

“That’s it,” says the Warden. “Good boy. Now get your things.”

Smalls, socks, boots, leaf—these are already in order. The prisoner picks up his trousers from where they’re folded against the wall and shakes them out. Left leg, right leg. Then he shrugs on his jerkin like armor. He smooths down his hair down with his palm and salutes the Warden, who merely rolls his eyes. 

Tentatively, the prisoner steps toward the door, the exit that is now actually an exit. Then he notices the bowl on the floor. The prisoner points to it. “What happens to him?”

“Don’t worry,” says the Warden. “Someone will pick it up.”

The prisoner stares at the bowl for a long heartbeat.

“This will be you someday,” he murmurs like a secret.

The Warden shrugs. “Hurry it up now.”

The prisoner turns back to the door where the Warden waits. Behind him is darkness, one long, unending shadow, impenetrable, unknown. It is the first darkness he has seen in a long time. As terrifying as it is, however, it also beckons him forward, as alluring as a song.

And yet—he can’t. He just can’t step through the door. It’s only a door, of course. A threshold, nothing more. The prisoner has walked through here sixty-one times before. The sixty-second time should require no greater effort. But it does. It feels like suicide now, stepping through that exit that is now actually an exit. Every muscle and instinct screams at him to stay put. The prisoner swallows thickly, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. He cannot do it.

Then he shifts his weight, and the leaf rubs against his ankle, vein to vein. _Do not hesitate to leap_ , whispers a woman’s voice, softly, so softly; he’s not even sure he truly imagined it.

But the prisoner nods anyway. He knows that voice. She is in the darkness, waiting for him. And if the woman is there, then that’s where he needs to be too. 

He takes a step, across the threshold, and is reborn on the other side, in darkness and unknowns.

“That’s it,” says the Warden. Behind the prisoner the door closes, and he can no longer see or smell; he can only feel his own heartbeat, and the leaf’s smooth rub against his leg. Then, as if wax had fallen from his ears, the man begins to hear sounds: his breath, the Warden’s; snoring, crying, laughter, the mumbling of prayers—the sounds of other prisoners, locked away somewhere here in the dark.

“Watch your step,” says the Warden. “The dark’s hard on the eyes if you’re not used to it. Just you listen to me. I won’t lead you wrong.”

The Warden’s voice is hardly a comfort; it’s too brash and loud for that. But it is something to follow, a will-o-the-wisp in the nothingness. So the prisoner begins to walk, letting the sound lead him as it prattles on and on.

“Maker, I swear you only got bigger since you been in here,” continues the voice. “Some do, I guess. Some prisoners expand, they fill up their empty space. They thrive in it like weeds, like it’s their own little garden, you know? Better than the drooling, I guess. Watch that stone there.”

The prisoner’s eyes are beginning to adjust; it’s not quite as dark as he’d originally thought. He is in a dim corridor of irregular stone and cobblework, uneven edges and shapes. Far down the hallway, there is a brighter light, like a hand stretching out in the darkness.

“I can see,” whispers the prisoner.

“Good,” says the Warden. “Resilient, aintcha? Takes most eyes awhile to start seeing the shadows again from the light. Well, I still gotta walk you the whole way out, though. They won’t let me do nothing else. Gotta do my duty and all, or else the Knight-Commander’ll have my head, no?” The Warden once more laughs, as if he has told a very funny joke. The prisoner doesn’t get it.

The light grows nearer. Much nearer. The prisoner can start to make out colors: blues and beiges and purples. He can see his own legs now, and his boots. Inside his sock, the leaf tickles the back of his calf. He keeps walking. The light is bright, so bright.

And now he is front of another door, but although it is open, he cannot discern what lies beyond it; it’s just color and more shapes he does not recognize.

“Here we are,” says the Warden. “Ready?”

The prisoner thinks a moment before nodding. This exit won’t be so hard, he realizes, because now he knows, the exit is not the end. It is only a transition.

He steps through it.

The world erupts into a cacophony of color and stone; the smell of sea spray and wet, mildewed rock; of birdcalls and voices and squealing metal; of rising towers and iron grates; and of light. Everywhere light. The Gallows, he remembers. This is called the Gallows. 

The prisoner who is no longer a prisoner turns back to the Warden, who does not step through the door. “Aren’t you coming?” he asks.

“No, I stay here.” The Warden claps him on the back. “See you again soon, buddy,” he laughs, as he descends back into the dark.

The wall closes up behind him, hiding the door to the deep, betraying no hinges or visible edges, utterly undetectable. It’s as if the exit – or was it an entrance? –was never there. The man has already forgotten the shape of it. He’d never know where to find it again if he looked. If even he wanted to.

He turns around. The man is free.

No—Carver Hawke is free.

“Well,” he mutters. “Now what?”


	82. No Light XIX: Coping

Carver doesn’t remember much about the first few days outside the hole. There aren’t enough numbers in which to anchor himself, nor enough routine: It’s a chaos of colors and sounds and smells and people, so many people, everywhere people. His concentration is listless, his attention fractured; each new sensation easily forgotten, like a baby’s. He is a leaf drifting on a river. Sometimes he loses track of himself for minutes at a time. Sometimes hours. And each time he comes back to himself he wonders if this will be the last time, if one day his leaf will drift out to sea and never make it back to shore.

***

“So,” Moira says, staring at her hands. “You’re back.”

Carver nods. “I am.”

“I was angry at you for a long time, you know.” She swallows and looks up at him. Her eyes shine with unspilled tears. “I thought you and Alrik were – well. I’m sorry.” 

Carver shrugs and counts the number of freckles on her left cheek.

“I like your beard,” she says eventually.

That night, he shaves it off. 

***

When Carver returns to his bunk, he finds sitting next to his dusty helmet a neatly tied bundle of letters from his mother, their envelopes stiff from too many pages crammed into too small a space. He counts them. Thirty envelopes. Thirty letters.

Carver can’t bring himself to read them, as they were meant for another man. So he pitches the whole lot into the fire and doesn’t write her back.

***

He also finds a poorly-wrapped package, unmarked, unlabeled aside from his name in hasty, spidery scrawl. This one he does open.

Inside is a ball of twine. He smiles sadly, but cannot find the strength to throw it in the fire too.

***

One hundred and twenty seven.

There are one hundred and twenty seven veins on his leaf. Not one hundred and twenty six.

All that time in the hole, he’d forgotten to count the most important vein of all: the central one, the lifeline, the one that connects leaf to stem, and stem back to the tree. 

“Silly Carver,” he mutters in Bethany’s voice. “I told you so.” 

***

“Let’s see, what else did you miss?” Paxley leans his elbows on the table far too closely to Carver’s meal for comfort and smooths his mustache with his forefingers. In the month Carver was gone, Paxley’s already ridiculous facial hair has swelled to the size of a Korcari caterpillar. Someone really should stop him before he suffocates.

“There was a raid on the DuPuis mansion, but Moira knows more ‘bout that, so ask her.” Paxley eyes Carver curiously, almost jealously, like a mabari trying to hide from his master a bone he should not have.  “Oh, and also it turns out that Lady Harimann was an apostate _and_ a blood mage. Who would’ve guessed, right?”

“Why are you telling me this?” Carver says, pushing the nineteen peas around on his plate so he doesn’t have to look at Paxley’s mustache anymore. He arranges them into the shape of a sunburst. “Gossip about people I don’t even know.”

Paxley shrugs. “Thought you’d want a laugh, is all.”

Carver tries to laugh and give Paxley what he wants so he’ll go away, but it comes out as more of a bark instead. “What about Alrik? Tell me about him.”

Carver looks up just as Paxley looks away, his giant mustache unable to fully hide the tense line of his pursed lips. Maybe Paxley should grow a beard instead.

“Dunno,” Paxley mutters.  “I gotta go.”

***

Carver finds no letters from Garrett. Not that there would be, of course. But once he thinks he notices a flash of dark hair disappearing behind a stone column, and Carver sighs in relief.

***

Carver finds ways to cope with the chaos, as he always does. He counts, and recites the things that are true, and tests out Dalish words on his tongue. He keeps his leaf in his sock, and sometimes runs his fingers along it as he pretends to scratch his ankle. He starts wearing his helmet.

When Carver puts on his helmet, his world narrows to a small, manageable slit, colors muted, sounds muffled, and he becomes just a man again, not Carver but something simpler, easier than the sum of his parts. When the helmet is on, he can collect himself in a secret space, _his_ space, and know some things are true. Tin walls may not be the same as smooth grey stone, but Carver has always been one to make do in difficult situations. He is after all the strong one. 

***

One day, Carver comes back to himself and finds that he is alone in a tucked away courtyard, standing in a sunbeam, his helmet off, wet face warm with sunshine. He is smiling.


	83. No Light XX: The Hunter

Something edged jabs into the space between Carver’s ribs, and, grunting, he shifts the sack of filth over his shoulder. Step by step, he makes his way down the long Gallows staircase with his burden, careful to count each step as he passes. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight.

Unlike most of the recruits with whom he now works mess duty, Carver doesn’t mind taking the trash out to the barge. Yes, his cargo stinks; but so does hurlock breath, or a bed made of hay and donkey shit; and this chore at least allows escape from the press of voices and too-full kitchens. Besides, it is work that must be done, and someone must do it. Carver likes knowing what to do.

At the end of two-hundred he has reached the docks, where two barges, a trash barge and a passenger boat, bang listlessly against the pier, their slack mooring lines scraping at the fat bollards like tuneless songs.

He plods toward the trash barge. The Gallows has no service entrance as such—too easy for escaping prisoners to abuse—and all boats, be they supply ships or dignitary vessels or trash barges, must all hitch at the same piers. It used to bother him, the juxtaposition, the smell. Now it just makes sense.

From the other docked barge, Templars now debark, their armor flashing in the late afternoon sunlight. The reflected dazzle catches his eyes, and shifting his burden again, Carver spares them a brief, annoyed glance.

His hands slacken. Carver drops the sack.

As it crashes against the wood, some of its contents spilling out, the rest of the men in the barge turn. But Ser Alrik has already noticed Carver gawping from the pier. His eyes glitter like lyrium ore.  

He smiles.

Then he pointedly turns his back on Carver and begins hauling something out of the barge—no, not a something, a _someone._ But any struggle in the motion is against the choppy tide and not between men; for at Alrik’s urging, the passenger moves easily, docilely, the fall of his braids unable to fully hide the fresh pink welt blistering on his forehead.

Carver then notices the lyrium brand banging against Alrik’s hip, like a stick to drum.

“Meredith made him a hunter,” he mutters, unable to move, to pick up the sack, to look away.

“It gets him out of the Gallows,” he halfheartedly replies in Bethany’s voice. “Away from the tranks.”

“What does it matter?” he whispers, eyes still on Alrik’s brand. “He’ll just make new ones.”

Carver watches Alrik help the newly-tranked apostate to the pier, and he remembers the fall of Sulahnni’s hair, her laughter as they played jacks in the apprentice courtyard—and a time before that, sneaking into the Chantry late at night; greeting a young man in Circle robes, beard and hair gone grey before its time; his flat voice and faded scar overwhelmed by blue fury; then the man begging, pleading for death.

 _You cannot imagine it,_ he’d said. _All the color, all the music in the world—gone._

Carver clenches his hand and makes a fist.

He understands now. Escaping the hole, being reborn in darkness, it all comes to this: he is a golem of vengeance, thoughtless and heavy, with one purpose only. He knows what to do.  

Carver likes knowing what to do.

“Goodbye,” Anders had said as he plunged the knife into Karl’s heart.

“Goodbye,” Carver says as he watches Alrik shuffle up the stairs.


	84. No Light XXI: The Deal

The lantern is not lit, but Carver opens the door anyway and finds Anders scrubbing weakly at a bloody clinic cot. Glassy-eyed, cheeks smudged with dark fluid, Anders does not turn to look at the door.

“Sorry, I’m closed for the night,” he says raggedly. He tosses his stained rag into a bowl and still does not look Carver’s way. “Please come back tomorrow.”

“Anders,” Carver says, the helmet turning his voice hollow and metallic.

Anders freezes. The bowl slides from his hand and clatters to the floor. Then he whips around to face Carver, black cracks already forming in his skin. Fade-smoke curls off his shoulders, and his eyes are lyrium-blue, not brown. He stretches out a warning hand.

“This is not your place, Templar,” he says in two voices.

“Oh, sod off, you jumpy bugger,” Carver sighs. “I’m not here to take you in.”

Closing the door behind him, he takes off his helmet and lays it on a nearby cot, avoiding the larger stains as best he can.

“Carver?” As suddenly as it appeared, the smoke evaporates, and Anders’s eyes fade back to brown. Surprise softens his customary scowl, and for a moment, Anders looks fragile, almost human. Then the sneer returns. “Does Garrett know you’re here fishing for Meredith’s dinner?”

“I said, I’m not here to take you in.” Carver can’t quite force himself to make eye contact. “Though I could if I wanted to.”

“Keep telling yourself that, _Junior_ ,” Anders replies, crossing his arms.

Rage, wordless and startling, explodes in Carver’s veins like water through a broken dam, and it is all he can do to refrain from Silencing the bastard and leaping on him as he did Alrik. The urgency of it, the power, frightens Carver, like a demon trapped inside of him, hurling itself against its cage to be free; and he forces himself to count the number of Templars in Lothering over and over again until the anger fades. 

When Carver comes back to himself, he notices Anders peering curiously at him. The abomination has picked up his bowl and moved over to the supply crate against which his staff leans. He has not yet taken his staff in hand, but nor does he move more than an arm’s length away from it, either.

“What do you want, Templar?” he sighs, pouring water over the soiled rags. “I’m tired and my patience for younger brothers is thin.”

“You like killing Templars,” Carver says without preamble. “I have one for you.”

Anders’s eyes narrow.

“I won’t do your dirty work for you, Carver. If he’s cheated you at a card game—“

“He’s the one who tranked your old boyfriend.”  

Anders’ jaw slackens. Every muscle in his face sags. Suddenly he looks young, very young, like a freckle-faced teenager.

“Karl,” he whispers.

“The Templar’s name is Alrik,” Carver continues. “Ser Otto Alrik.”

Anders’s hands begin to shake.

“Alrik,” he says, testing out the sound of it and frowning. “I know that name. He’s a mage hunter.”

“ _Now_ he is,” interjects Carver bitterly.

“I’ve seen his work,” mutters Anders. His hands ball into fists, wisps of smoke rising from the knuckles. “Just the other day—he was out—I wasn’t in time—I could have—“

Carver remembers the braided man on the docks, and the angry pink welt forming on his forehead.

“I can give him to you,” Carver says in a hollow voice he barely recognizes as his own. “I can give you Alrik.”

Suddenly Anders recoils, grabbing his staff and brandishing it like a ward.

“This is a trick,” he says. His gaze is a brittle, skittering thing, and the muscles in the arm holding the staff dance and flex uncontrollably.

“No trick,” replies Carver evenly. “No trick and no jest. Just vengeance.”

Anders swallows, the vulnerable knob of his throat bobbing. “This makes no sense. Why would you want one of your fellows dead?”

Carver looks down at his boots, now covered in Darktown muck. “Garrett didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Nothing,” Carver mutters, looking back up. If Garrett didn’t want Anders to know, then that’s between them, Carver thinks. Just as well, too. “Just know I want him dead as much as you.”

“How reassuring,” says Anders.

Carver turns and picks up his helmet. The metal is cool against his fingers, relaxing, calming. He stares into the dark slit, and cannot shake the horrible feeling that the helmet is staring back into him.

“I have one condition,” he says.

“I make no promises to Templars,” Anders replies, but he waits for Carver to continue anyway.

“Keep my brother out of this.” Carver tears his eyes away from the helmet, and catches Anders’s gaze at last. “I don’t care what you do, or how you do it. But leave Garrett out of it.”

Anders hesitates, briefly, then nods.

Carver exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Tomorrow night then,” he says. “Be at the entrance to the Gallows in the old service tunnel by midnight.”

“But how will you get him there?“

“I know a way,” says Carver, putting his helmet back on. “Just don’t be late.”

He walks out of the clinic without another word.


	85. No Light XXII: Setting the Trap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve assumed that the Order posts its duty roster somewhere that all Templars can have equal access to it, much like in the Guard. That’s the unspoken crux to Carver’s plan here, and something I probably should have mentioned in the previous chapter – that Carver knows exactly where and when Alrik has hunter duty, because it’s been posted in the roster. Oops.

“Look at her,” says Carver. “She’s perfect.”

Through the narrow slit in his helmet he watches the girl play in the courtyard with the other apprentices. She is tall for her age, thin, willowy. Her skin is the color of the black oak trees he and Bethany used to climb back in Lothering. Though her eyes are still puffy –Carver heard her sobbing last night in the chapel during his graveyard shift—she smiles now, those doe-like irises catching and holding the feeble light. She will be a beautiful woman someday. Someday soon.

“Please don’t do this,” begs Bethany with Carver’s voice.

He sighs and allows himself to rest his suddenly heavy head against the stone wall. In his hand, he fiddles with a small, fat envelope, tapping it against his rerebrace in an even rhythm, like a heartbeat.

“The wheels are set in motion,” he replies at last, his low voice echoing back at him comfortingly within the close confines of his helmet.  “I’ve already told Anders. It has to be done.”

“But there must be another way,” she urges.

“How else do you catch a spider?” Carver watches as a young boy, cheeks dusted with pimples, whispers something in the girl’s ear; she blushes and giggles wildly, swatting at his shoulder. “You can’t set a trap without bait.”

“But sacrificing a child, brother? What would Father say?”

“Dunno. You tell me.” Carver looks away from the girl, up, up to the tower that overlooks the courtyard, and the office window still open, even now, like a porthole in a ship. He wonders if the cow-headed figurine still sits on the desk in that office; if each day Sulahnni still pushes her dust-rag along the windowsill in clean, parallel lines. “If we let him go free, he’ll just keep tranking innocents. Do you want that, Beth?”

“No,” she mutters. “But this isn’t you.”

“I don’t know _who_ I am anymore,” he sighs. “It doesn’t matter anyway. All that matters is that Alrik gets what’s coming to him.”

“I thought all that mattered were the mages.”

“Yes,” he murmurs. “This is justice. This is for them.” 

 “I wonder,” she says, and then she is gone.

Carver closes his eyes. Even within his helmet he can smell the bay’s briny seaspray and hear the call of gulls, just loud enough to be perceived over the squeals of laughter in the courtyard. The darkness begins to sway, like the dank cargo hold of a ship. He suddenly wishes he could take it all back, everything, from the moment he left Ferelden’s shores—no, from the moment he fled Ostagar—for there must have been another way for all this to have unfolded. A cleaner way. A better way.

Carver sighs again, suddenly very cross at himself, and pushes off the stone wall. He strides across the courtyard, feeling stronger, more resolved with each passing step. He stops before the young girl and her friend, who separate quickly when the shadow of his advance falls across their play.

“Are you Ella, Miss?” says Carver, his voice hollow and tinny from within the helmet.

She nods silently, puffy eyes wide and darting.

“A letter,” he says gently, as gently as he can, for Bethany’s sake. “From your parents.” 

He holds out his envelope to her. Her jaw hangs open.

“Thank you, ser,” she mumbles as she takes the letter.

Greedily she reads the handwriting on its cover and if she doesn’t recognize it, she makes no indication; indeed, she opens it in the middle of the courtyard, nevermind to Carver’s lingering presence, and begins to read it right in front of him. 

“Whatsit say?” says the young boy, reaching for it.

She snatches it out of his reach, and runs out of the courtyard.

Triumph, like a ball of ice, settles in his stomach, and Carver knows his trap has been set.


	86. No Light XXIII: Clean Up

Three days later, Cullen institutes a Gallows-wide manhunt for Alrik and his men. Even Carver is enlisted in the search, and he scours his assigned territory of Smuggler’s Cut as earnestly and thoroughly as any other Templar.

Thrask, of all people, is the one who eventually finds Alrik’s body in the service tunnel, though why it took so long for him to think of searching the cave, when it was Thrask himself who first told Carver of its whereabouts, Carver can’t say—though he can hazard a few guesses.

Rumors sweep the barracks that by the time it had been found, Alrik’s corpse had already been half-digested by the crawling things of the dark; that his body had been scored in Fade-scorches and nail marks; that his blood and entrails had spattered the tunnel’s walls as far as fifty feet on either side. Carver doesn’t put much stock in gossip, of course. But the notion that lyrium-starved cave spiders had gnawed on Alrik’s soft spots offers a certain irony that, while not particularly pleasing, is cathartic in the same manner as those tragic Harvestmere dramas sometimes performed in Hightown square, the ones where kings steal their brothers’ wives and crowns only to die at the end.

Overall, however, the victory feels hollow, empty. Six other men died here, for Alrik’s sake; more unwilling victims of his predation. Collateral damage.

“They were men, Carver,” Bethany chides him, and she doesn’t bother to whisper about it, either. “ _Not_ collateral damage.”

He knows she is right. So that night, before he goes to sleep, Carver takes the dagger Isabela gave him and notches a mark on his sword pommel for each of them. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he marks one for Sulahnni too, and the three Starkhaven mages whose names he still does not know.

***

They never find Ella.

***

A few days later, Carver receives an unlabeled package, wrapped in the scraps of stained butcher paper and sealed with far too much wax. At first, he thinks Merrill has sent him another ball of twine. But when he opens the parcel, Carver discovers inside a letter on fine stationary embossed with the Amell family crest. A small copper amulet slides out as well. 

The letter is brief:

_His soul rests easy now. Our thanks._

The message is not signed, nor does Carver recognize its handwriting; but Carver knows well enough who it is from and why, and he tries to feel glad that at least someone has found satisfaction from this endeavor, instead of more emptiness.

Carver holds up the amulet. It’s an apprentice’s pendant, gaudy and ill-stamped with the emblem of the Fereldan Circle. It must be very old, decades old, for it has already begun to turn green at the edges. It catches no light but gleams anyway, seemingly illuminated from deep within.

For a long time, Carver simply holds the trinket, testing its weight, wondering how it must have felt to wear such a thing as a boy, and then a man, only to then slide it away in a desk or pouch somewhere to be forgotten—or, perhaps, to later be given to another, with breathless promises and trembling hands.

At length, Carver loops the chain around his neck and slips the pendant below his armor, where it rests, warm and clammy, against his heart.

Then Carver looks back to the letter once more, his narrowed eyes drawn to the Amell family crest boldly stamped across its top, and frowns.


	87. The Maker's Right Hand I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This next short arc, "The Maker's Right Hand", will be a little side story detour, akin to the Merrill Alphabet. Don't worry, Carver will show up eventually.

The carven words are small and few: “JOHN RATTAN. 9:11-9:34 DRAGON. REST AT THE MAKERS RIGHT HAND”.  His family couldn’t afford anything more elaborate; it’s only by the prerogative of the Order that their son even made it onto the Memorial Wall in the first place.

But given that John died fending off a band of lyrium smugglers infiltrating the Gallows, says his mother Mattie, “it’s the least those bastards could do”.

“My son loved horses,” says George Rattan, a once-strapping drunk who’d lost most of his right hand and part of his left to the Foundry’s belching gears. When he speaks at his son’s memorial, his three remaining fingers fidget restlessly. “As a boy, he’d done tell me, _‘_ Papa, I want to be a chevalier’ _._ The Order were the closest he’d got. And now they tell me he’s wi’ the Maker.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his mauled hand. “I jus’ hope they got horses in the Golden City.”

A few days after the service, Ser Cullen summons George to the Gallows. He takes him to a small office in a high tower and pushes across his desk a small, clinking pouch. At first George just eyes it warily and Ser Cullen along with it, but he cannot resist its song for long, and George eventually upends the small bag on the desk before him. Coins spill out. One rolls to a stop next to a strange and ugly cow-headed figurine.

“Ten sovereigns,” mutters George, stomach sinking.

“And another ten for each month, until the rest of John’s enlistment contract runs out.” When George does not move to collect the coins, Ser Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s a fair sum of money.”

“My son was jus’ a recruit,” counters George. He regards the coins as if at any moment, they might come to life and slither out the doorway. “You pay out that much for all recruits?”

“Your son was a hero,” says Ser Cullen.

George leaves the office shortly thereafter, unsettled, three fingers twitching in his pocket against the pouch’s strings. He tells himself he takes the money for his family, but as he pushes open the Hanged Man’s front door, he also tells himself they’ll never know there originally were ten coins in the bag, and not eight.

Halfway into his second pint, George notices Corff rambing to the Healer of Darktown, who stands close to a tall bearded man and his fellows, a scantily-dressed woman and an elf girl. “They say there was lyrium smugglers ‘neath the Gallows,” the bartender says, polishing a tankard with a secretive smile. “But I hear they never found no lyrium. Nor no smugglers.”

The Healer’s face grows dark and grim.

“Fancy that,” says the bearded man, eyes drifting to the Healer. “Anything else?”

“Then what _did_ they find?” interrupts George.

The Healer’s friends look at him, but the Healer does not; instead he looks uncomfortable, and strangely fierce. Corff, for his part, looks delighted for his gossip to fall upon so many interested ears—until he notices who has spoken.

“Ah, it's nothing, George,” says Corff. “’Tis jus’ idle gossip. You know me mouth.”

“What did they find,” repeats George. He tries to stand off his stool, but sways unsteadily into the Healer, who puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him. 

“Never you mind,” says Corff. He takes the tankard from George’s hands. “I think you’ve had enough. Mattie’ll be wanting you home.”

“Just tell me, blast you,” shouts George, pounding his stubbed fist on the table. Some of the nearby patrons fall silent, waiting.

The Healer looks at him, eyes warm and fierce. “Why does it matter to you?”

“My son,” says George, whose eyes begin to water. “My Johnny died in those blasted tunnels.”

The Healer stiffens and drops his hand.

“Your son was one of them? A Templar?” At the question, the bearded man by the Healer’s side frowns.

“A recruit,” nods George. “They says he done died defendin’ the Gallows from smugglers.”

A war erupts on the Healer’s face; brow creasing, mouth drawn, his expression seems to splinter into two halves, dark and light. 

“Anders, he's a father," says the bearded man warily. "Just leave him to his grief."

But the Healer does not turn away.

“Think on this, George,” he suddenly growls. “Why would they send a mere recruit to deal with smugglers?”

“Okay, I think that’s enough gossip for one night,” cuts in Corff. “Varric’s upstairs if you need ‘im.” He turns to George, eyes kind; George wants to punch him. “Just go home, Rattan. This round’s on me.”

George’s gaze drifts from Corff to the Healer to the bearded man and back to the empty space where his tankard used to be, and, in a surge of rage, he kicks over his stool and stomps out into the cool, Lowtown night. 

Out in the bracing air, George begins to feel more sober, and wishes he didn’t. He shoves the heels of his palms against his eyes and staggers back to the shack he shares with his four daughters, his feeble father-in-law and Mattie.

George stares at the front door for a moment before opening it, wondering for how much longer they can afford to keep this place, for they’ll never be able to make the monthly on Mattie’s seamstress pay alone, and his daughters are too young to find scullery work, and his hands—his blasted hands. John’s stipend was the only thing keeping them from the Darktown gutters.

Then George feels the edge of one of his eight remaining coins cut into his thigh. _The Maker provides,_ as John would say.

“Damn the blasted Maker,” George whispers into the cold night.


	88. The Maker's Right Hand II

The end of the month finds George sprawled in a Lowtown alley, squinting at the rising sun and his own growing sobriety, shouting about the conspiracy of Templars who have concealed the truth about his son’s death.

One morning a Templar on his way to the alienage stops to listen. He is large, too large, and he hunches his shoulders as if carrying a heavy burden. From behind the narrow slit of his helmet, bright blue eyes shine.

“You killed my son,” moans George.

“Possibly,” grunts the helmet. His voice is young, but sorrowful. “I’ve killed many men’s sons.”

George frowns. “The Order, blast it. The Order killed my son.”

The Templar does not turn away. “Was your son a mage?”

 “No.” George takes another swig from the bottle by his destroyed hand and spits something murky on the ground. “He was a hero.”

“Mages can be heroes, too,” says the Templar warily.

“Don’t lecture me, can-man,” growls George. If he were more sober, he’d rise to his feet in righteous indignation. Instead, he just sort of flops in place. “I been in this city since long before you lot decided all mages was evil. My father’s cousin was a magicker. The Red Hawke’s a magicker, ain’t he? This ain’t about no blasted mages. It’s about the _truth_. The truth of what happened to my son.” 

The Templar stands still, as if waiting. Then he crouches down by George.

“The truth,” he mutters.

“They says it was a smuggler’s run,” whispers George. He squints up at the Templar. None of the can-men have ever stopped to listen before. He doesn’t know whether to be pleased or terrified. “But they never found no lyrium. Nor no smugglers.”

The Templar goes very still. “Oh. _That_.”

“Yes, that. Of course _that_.” George stabs the air with one of his good fingers. “What’s that?”

“Best you forget it, serrah,” says the helmeted man.

But George wails like an animal and throws his now-empty bottle against the alley wall. The Templar flinches at the sound.

“They all says that,” screams George. “ _Let it go, George. Best you forget it, George._ Like it ain’t my Johnny dead and gone. Like it ain’t my baby boy. But I tell you what. I ain’t gonn’ forget my son.”

For a long time, the Templar simply stares at where the bottle crashed against the wall, watches the liquid trickle down the stones.  George thinks he hears muttering from inside the helmet--like counting.

“Alright,” he says slowly, heavily. “Tell me everything.”

George does—about his son’s death, about the blood money Cullen offered, about how John loved horses. By the time he finishes, his eyes are watering again. The Templar hasn’t moved.  “Why they send a boy to do a man’s job, huh, tin can? Why a recruit to go after smugglers?”

“Because apparently someone asked him to go,” says the Templar.

George peers at him. “And how you know that?” 

The Templar shakes his head but does not answer.

“You want the truth, Serrah Rattan, you’ve got to demand it,” he says at last. “But I warn you: You might not like what you find.”

“This is my boy, you bastard,” growls George.

“Then—“  The Templars sighs, a weird hollow thing that mostly stays in his helmet. For the first time, George wonders how the man can see behind such a small, close slit. “Then I suppose you’re asking the wrong questions.”

George squints. “I am?”

The Templar nods. “The question isn’t ‘why did the Order send a recruit to his death’. The question is,” he pauses, almost as if reconsidering, “how did my son know Ser Otto Alrik?”

“Who?”

“Exactly,” says the Templar. He begins to resume his march toward the alienage.

“Wait, who is Otto Alrik?” calls George after him, but the Templar has already disappeared behind a corner. “ _Who?_ ”


	89. The Maker's Right Hand III

The fliers appear in Lowtown the next morning, covering the muddy and stained clay bricks like the ornate Orlesian wallpaper one might find in the fancier Hightown estates. CON OR COVER UP, shouts one.  JUSTICE FOR JOHN RATTAN screams another.  (George likes those. He thinks they’re clever.)

But the majority of the posters are not clever. Instead they ask one simple question, printed in bold, blood-colored woodcut across the page: WHO IS OTTO ALRIK?

George can’t pay Varric his usual printing fees, of course, but the dwarf doesn’t seem to mind; when George mentions the problem of payment in the Hanged Man taproom, Varric merely claps him on the shoulder and smiles.

“You’re a regular,” he says, as if that explains everything.  

But George is no storyteller, and this is no swashbuckling tale of derring-do like _The Tale of the Red Hawke._ This is a declaration of war, and even George knows that that is a story that never ends happily.

The fliers disappear by mid-day, but George expected as much. He posts another round the next morning. These disappear even quicker.

By the next morning, the Templars have a man prowling the Old City Slums like a panther, waiting, watching. It’s not the same man as before, George knows, because his eyes aren’t visible at all. George wonders if the Templar he met before knows about the posters—or maybe if he’s the one tearing them down.

George waits until nightfall to go out again. He knows he’s risking the wrath of the Dog Lords, and worse, Mattie; but he does it anyway, posting in his usual places, because at least it’s something to do, and these days George has so very little of that to spare.

He’s almost done posting when someone clears his throat behind him. George turns. There stands a man and about ten of his fellows, well-armed, dressed in soiled leathers, Fereldan mabaris heeling at their sides. George sighs.

“What’s all this then,” the man says, arms crossed, grinning viciously.

“Oy, Cor,” mutters George. “I ain’t got nothin’ to take. But take it anyway an’ leave me to it.”

The man named Cor steps forward, regards the fliers on the weather-stained brick.

“An’ who says you could put these up on my wall?” he says, teeth flashing dangerously.

“I says,” says George. “Ain’t your wall, Cor. It’s everybody’s.”

Cor chuckles, a hollow, brutal thing, like stones scraping together. “What’s it say?”

“Who’s Otto Alrik?” With that, George sets his jaw and braces for the blow he knows will come. He always knew his life would end in violence—his brief tour in the Chevaliers taught him that much at least—but he’d hoped it would be the Templars coming after him, not Lowtown refugee thugs.

George remembers Cor back when he first met him as a pockmarked beggar in Lirene’s shop. Cor was fresh off the boat from Amaranthine, on the last ship out of the burning city. He was a kinder man then, and a sadder one. Of course, both of them were different four years ago.  Now they are both older, wiser, carved from the scorched earth left by the mistakes younger men made.

Oddly, Cor does not move. Nor do his men.

“You gon’ kill me, do it already,” says George.

But something has changed in Cor’s expression—it hasn’t softened, per se, but nor does the man seem quite so ready to pounce.

“I hear about your son,” Cor says after a time. “Johnny, right?”

George nods dumbly.

“Good kid,” says Cor, with no ounce of gentleness. “My pup, Bella, she always like him.”

At his heel, Bella obligingly begins to pant.

“Thought he might even be one o’ us one day, but ‘course he gone straight.” Cor glances at a man to his right, a slender man with large eyes and brooding, Rivaini features. “Elam. Didn’ chu say that man’s name was Alrik?”

“He came after my girl, Ella,” seethes Elam, hands clenching. “He was gon’ turn her Tranquil, but she got away.”

George frowns, struggling to put the pieces together. “Got away? You mean, she’s an apostate?”

Elam’s eyes narrow. “Sure, if you believe what the tin-cans say. But if they trankin’ girls before they’s turned mages,” his hands drift toward the daggers on his hip, “I say they don’t get to decide shit ‘bout my daughter no more.”

George looks at the posters still in his hand. Even in the Threnhold days, harboring an apostate was dangerous, suicidal even. But would he have done any less for John? _Was_ he doing any less?

“Cor,” he mutters, exhausted. “Quit toyin’ wit’ yer food and jus’ kill me already.”

Then, suddenly, Cor laughs and slings a heavy arm around George’s shoulder. Perplexed by this sudden mood change, George desperately tries not to flinch. 

“The problem wit’ you, mate,” says Cor with an expression that would almost be warm under other circumstances, “is you always barkin’ up the wrong trees.”

“I don’ understand,” George says.

“Don’ you think it strange,” Cor leans in conspiratorially, “that the papa of a magicker and the papa of a Templar want the same man dead?”

It’s the first time the thought had crossed George’s mind; he hadn’t gone much further than wondering who Alrik was in the first place. But he decides to keep that to himself. “I s’pose.”

“You wan’ get Alrik,” says Cor, thumping the few posters remaining in George’s hand with his finger, “you can’ be postin’ this shit here in Lowtown, where nobody can _read._ You gotta go higher up.”

Cor’s gaze drifts back toward the bazaar, where the stairs to Hightown rise out of the muck.

“Hightown?” says George. “But the Guard’ll jump me if I go up there.”

Cor shrugs. “An’ you get shanked if you stay down here. Your choice.”

“Get shanked up there, too,” says George. “Ain’t you heard about the Invisible Sisters?”

“Well,” Cor grins. “That’s where me an’ my boys come in.”

George recoils, pushes Cor’s arm off.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to reject aid, mate,” says Cor peevishly. “Far’s I can see, I’m the only one offerin’.”

“Why you wan’ help me so bad?” asks George, eyes narrow, heart thudding in his chest.

“Because,” says Cor, “We’re dog lords, mate. And we look out for our pack.” 

“Not sure I want in your _pack_ ,” says George.

“Who says you invited?” Cor looks to Elam, who crosses his arms. “This one’s for Ella.”


	90. The Maker's Right Hand IV

For days, Hightown is abuzz about the mysterious posters that have grown like mushrooms in the Chantry’s shade overnight. At first, many nobles assume “Otto Alrik” is the latest Nevarran drama coming to town, as theater troupes will sometimes send criers ahead to advertise their impending arrival. But no crier ever comes, and the posters keep appearing. Their presence becomes a mystery—a scandal even—delicious enough to entice the bored and nervous aristocracy, however momentarily, from their usual fears concerning the elven and Qunari threats. Adding to the posters’ danger and allure, of course, is the fact that the Templars tear them down whenever and wherever they spot them—a clue that even the most rheumy-eyed aristocrat can’t help but notice.

“Who is Otto Alrik?” ask the noble ladies in their evening salons and knitting circles. “Who is Otto Alrik?” harrumph mustachioed heirs over their brandies and imported Wycome pipeweed. “Who is Otto Alrik?” lovers tease each other over moonlit balconies, and on midnight strolls through the wide Hightown promenades.

“Who is Otto Alrik?” the Viscount asks Seneschal Bran two weeks after the first poster appears. “And why is he so bloody bent on self-promotion?”

Bran scratches his chin. Though it’s his job to despise mysteries and unpredictabilities, he too has seen the posters and wondered and gossiped, though he has the presence of mind to at least hate himself for doing so.  

“I’ll make the usual inquiries,” he says.

***

“He’s a Templar,” Serendipity tells him as they lounge together that night in her luxuriously draped four-poster, a tangle of sweaty limbs and hair. “Or he was.”

Bran’s brows knit together. “Was?”

“Sure.” Smiling through her exhaustion, Serendipity runs a finger along the crease in Bran’s brow and smooths out the lines there. “But he’s dead now.”

Bran doesn’t seem to notice the tender gesture. “Then by what miracle is he plastering his name over half of Hightown?”

“Who knows? Maybe he’s come back from the dead to rape more girls,” she says, dropping her finger. She shudders. “Gross.”

Bran leans up on one elbow, looming down at her like a wolfhound that has caught a rabbit’s scent, and Serendipity shudders again, for a different reason. Serendipity knows she’s Bran’s favorite, and not just because she’s a fantastic lay.  Information is Bran’s aphrodisiac, and she is in steady supply.

“I thought that was just a rumor the Guard spread about their competition,” he murmurs, eyeing her lips, her collarbone.

“Honey, the shit I hear about Tin Cans would turn you elven,” she says.

He runs a finger along her bared shoulder. “So what else have you heard about this “tin can”?”

Serendipity thinks for a moment, shutting her eyes against Bran’s distracting leer. “He liked the Formari mages best of all, what are they called—Tranquil? Yeah, those. I hear he used to turn mages Tranquil, then sell them out to the recruits.”

Bran’s finger stops its lurid slide.

“Maker,” he whispers.

She nods. “Madame Lusine wasn’t too happy about that, let me tell you.”

“Well, that explains why the Templars pull down all the posters,” Bran mutters. “The entire Order rallying to protect one of their own.”

“Not all of them,” she says. “Few months ago, I heard that another Templar tried to kill him. Almost did, too.”

Bran sinks back on the pillow. He remembers it now: the Hawke court martial, curiously open to the public; an unprecedented move, the first of its kind anyone could remember, and probably the last. Yet, despite its novelty, not many nobles had showed up; even he had sent an aide in his stead. Now he wishes he’d been less self-important. 

“But if the man’s dead,” says Bran, leaning his head on Serendipity’s shoulder, “why should be he haunting Hightown now?”

“Honey, you got me,” she says.

“Damned tin cans,” he mutters.

“Watch it,” she says, touching her temple to his with a smile. “No badmouthing my other customers.”

Bran does not smile back.

“Such a headache,” he sighs irritably. “I suppose someone should do something about this.”

She stretches her arms above her on the bed as alluringly as she can. “As long as someone does something about _this_ first.”


	91. The Maker's Right Hand V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George namedrops Kelder Vanard here, which might seem odd that he should even know of him. But my headcanon is that the people of Kirkwall know a lot more about the events of DA2 than it might at first appear, because that’s the way it is in any city — rumors, gossip, and news all travel fast in such close, cramped quarters. The question is whether they feel enfranchised to do anything about it, which they usually don’t (and it explains why folk heroes like South-Song Gerralt or the Black Fox -- and of course Hawke -- take on such importance, because they do have the power to change things.)
> 
> As the son of a magistrate, and a long time serial murderer-and-also-maybe-rapist, Kelder’s activities are probably pretty well known in the alienage. And since Rattan lives in the Old City, just one neighborhood over, they’ve probably heard quite a bit about it too. But whether they have the power (or inclination) to stop him? Well, that’s another story entirely.

Six weeks after Ser Cullen first pushed a bag of coin across his desk, he summons George to his office once more.  Today the Knight-Captain is pale, drawn; he leans heavily on his elbows. Under his eyes are deep, blue shadows. 

“You deserve the truth,” he says without preamble, before George can even finish sitting down. “Your son died hunting a maleficar.”

George says nothing and continues to arrange himself in the chair. Despite their outward beauty, the chairs aren’t particularly comfortable; too much stuffing and embroidery, and not enough support.

“She was a danger to herself and others. John volunteered for the dispatch sent to contain the threat.” Ser Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose and does not look at George while he speaks. “Surely you understand why we wouldn’t want to advertise a security breach to the public, but your boy helped diffuse the situation before it got out of hand. He saved the city. He died a hero.”

“Bullshit,” says George.

Eyes narrowing, Ser Cullen meets George’s level gaze.

“Serrah Rattan, I am telling you the truth,” he says.

“Accordin’ to who? You?” George laughs bitterly.

Ser Cullen folds his hands in front of him, his fingers stiff, knuckles white. “Do you have a different version of events that you’d like to share?”

The Knight-Captain is Fereldan; George can hear it now, that muddy drawl around the edges of his vowels. He hadn’t noticed it the last time he was here, but now it is as obvious as a thunderclap. No matter how hard Ser Cullen tries to hide his dog lord accent, it’ll never be enough, thinks George. He wonders if Ser Cullen can hear the Orlesian in his.

“Sure, I got one,” he says. He leans forward in his chair like a snake readying a strike. “It starts with you sendin’ a squad of tin cans ‘gainst a thirteen year ol’ girl.”

Ser Cullen goes rigid, and George takes that as a sign his words have hit their mark.

“Oh yes,” he continues. “I know all ‘bout Ella. Maleficar, my ass. She jes’ a scared little girl who wanna see her papa again, an’ you go an’ sic Kelder Vanard on ‘er.” George sits back in his chair, knitting his hands together in front of his chest, like Varric does after finishing a story by the fireside. “Now: How’s about you start swingin’ straight wit’ me, son?”

Ser Cullen is silent for many moments.

“That’s an interesting theory,” he says, his voice as cold and hard as iron. “And where is your proof?”

“Find yer own damn mages,” scoffs George. “Ain’t my business to give ‘em up.”

“If you know the whereabouts of an apostate, you have a duty to the Maker to divulge them,” says Ser Cullen.

“An’ who made you the Maker?”

“I could torture you,” Ser Cullen offers.

George tosses his head back and laughs, full-throated and cruel.  “Jes’ go ahead ‘n try.”

“Don’t tempt me." A muscle in the side of Ser Cullen's jaw pops.

They stare at each other, tight-lipped and flinty-eyed, like two scavenger birds circling the same carcass.

“I may be poor,” says George at last, “but I ain’t stupid.”

“That’s debatable,” says Ser Cullen.

George continues as if he hadn’t heard. “So you tell me: Since when you lettin’ greenies without their sunshields volunteer for the front lines?” 

Ser Cullen’s jaw clenches again, the muscle popping a staccato rhythm, as if it wants to break from the skin. “It was an executive decision of the Templar in charge of the mission.”

“Otto Alrik,” says George, breathless.

“Yes,” says Ser Cullen. “ _Ser_ Otto Alrik.”

“So you admit my boy wasn’t where he s’posed to be.”

“He was where Ser Alrik had asked him to be,” replies Ser Cullen carefully. 

“You still hidin’ something, I can smell it." George frowns. "Who’re you protectin’? Alrik?”

“Enough.” Ser Cullen places both hands on his desk and stands. “I have more important things to do than explain myself to simpletons.”

George doesn't move. “You can’t dismiss me like one of your tin cans."

“Get out or I’ll throw you out myself.”  

“Not until you tell me what it is you’re hidin’.”

Then suddenly, Ser Cullen’s shoulders slump forward, as if something within him had deflated.

“Serrah,” he says, the hard edge in his voice replaced by an almost pleading tone. “Just take this. Let your son rest in peace.”

“That's my boy you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” George reminds him.

Then, without warning Ser Cullen slams his hands on the desk. George flinches backward, despite himself.

“It’s our _city_ I’m talking about.” Fire gleams in the Templar's gaze; whatever softness was momentarily there has burnt away. “Kirkwall is a Qunari powderkeg, ready to explode any moment. We can barely keep it in check. And now we must fend off inquiries from the Office of the Viscount too?”

He slams his hands on the desk again.  The ugly cow-headed figurine topples from its corner perch and smashes on the stone floor, the head and body severing and rolling in opposite directions. But the Knight-Captain does not seem to notice.

“This ill-conceived crusade of yours threatens to destabilize Kirkwall in her hour of greatest need,” he says. “But that makes no nevermind to you. You’ll work with murderers and cutpurses—oh yes, George, I know all about your _alliance_ with those Lowtown thugs—and you don’t care who you hurt. All you care about is your grief and petty vengeance. Well, serrah, I care about Kirkwall, and its _people._ All of its people.”

George swallows thickly and refuses to be cowed.

“My son was one of your _people_ ,” he says.

“I know,” replies Ser Cullen. “And I do the best I can by him. But by the Maker, Rattan, did you ever think that maybe your son wasn’t as good a man as you think?”

George leaps to his feet, blood raging in his ears. He leans over the desk as if planning to hurdle it and throttle the Knight-Captain where he stands. “What’re you implyin’?”

Ser Cullen says nothing, just sighs and drops his gaze to his desk.

“My son was a hero,” says George through clenched teeth.

“Exactly,” answers Ser Cullen wearily.

George watches him for several heartbeats, and knows he’ll get nothing more out of Ser Cullen this day. Vision blurring, he shoves away from the desk with all the power remaining in his three good fingers.

“I don’ gotta sit here an’ listen to you slander my boy,” says George, stomping toward the door. But once he reaches the exit, he lays a hand on the jamb and turns back to Ser Cullen, who hasn’t moved. “But I’ll tell you one thing, dog lord. This ain’t your city, and these ain’t your people. You can change your accent, but truth is, once a Fereldan, always a Fereldan.”

“Better than the alternative,” mutters Ser Cullen, and George slams the door behind him.


	92. The Maker's Right Hand VI

The news of Alrik’s depravity spreads among the Hightown elite like fire in an alienage. Many nobles remember once purchasing Formari-enchanted goods—corsets and codpieces, or life-saving herbal concoctions—and the notion that any man could so abuse society’s most useful and productive members raises such outrage among the aristocracy as hadn’t been seen since the final days of the Orlesian occupation.

By the time the Viscount finally learns who Alrik is, it is already too late.  The Chantry cannot diffuse the situation now.

Two months after Alrik’s death, the Chantry opens public tribunals into the allegations of abuse perpetrated against the Gallows Tranquil—and this time, unlike Carver’s court martial, the public attends en masse. From princelings to paupers, from Dog Lords to trinketsmongers, Kirkwall’s citizens squeeze shoulder-to-shoulder into the sweltering Chantry halls: Even a kossith or two can be spotted amongst the crowd. Indeed, the Tribunals become the fashionable event of the season—the entire Dragon Age, perhaps—and the broadsheets report as meticulously on noblewomen’s hair ribbons as they do on the trial proceedings.

Dozens of witnesses are called to testify, including a large Templar named Ser Carver Hawke. George thinks he sounds familiar, though it isn’t until halfway through the man’s testimony of how he caught a recruit abusing an elven Tranquil that Rattan realizes he recognizes those bright, blue eyes.

“I pulled him off her and went after Alrik,” concludes Ser Hawke. 

“If he was abusing the girl, why did you let him go?” asks the Inquisitor.

For a moment, Ser Hawke squeezes his eyes shut. Then, sighing, he turns his gaze, not to the Inquisitor, but directly at George, who sits next to a pretty red-headed elven Formari in the witness box. 

“He was just a kid,” he says softly. “Lonely, stupid. Alrik had probably told him all sorts of things. And, well—I guess I figured kids can still make up for their mistakes.”

Vision blurring, George clenches his hands and desperately needs a drink. 

Soon, even George is called to the stand.

“For how long,” asks the inquisitor, “did you know that your son was a rapist?”

“My son was a hero,” Rattan replies, and, snarling, lunges across the stand.

He spends the night in the Guardhouse, and every night after that in the Hanged Man, although few of the regulars apart from Varric will acknowledge him these days. He tells himself he doesn’t mind. Corff still serves him, and that’s all that matters.

After several weeks, the Tribunal finally closes, as spring has begun to melt into the hotbox miasma that is Kirkwall summer.  The Inquisitor concludes that Alrik was the main perpetrator of the abuse, as well as the six men who died under the Gallows that day with him—including John. All other Templars are absolved of charges. 

In a controversial move, Meredith—who never once attended the Tribunal—approves the consignment of Alrik’s ashes to the Memorial Wall. But every night, his name and marker is vandalized. Nobody can catch who does it.

And if Carver has his way, they never will.

***

_Sulahnni opens her door. John Rattan stands outside, red-faced, sweaty, his hands twisting in his undertunic._

_“Su,” he chokes. “Can I come in?”_

_“It is dangerous for you to be here,” she says mildly. “Ser Hawke may injure you if he discovers your presence in my quarters._

_He nods and swallows. “I—I know. Please, I won’t be more than a moment.”_

_She falls back and he enters, closing the door behind him._

_“You look pretty today,” he says._

_She does not respond._

_“Sorry.” Sighing, his gaze falls to the floor. “I know I shouldn’t, but—“_

_Then he notices a small wooden toy on her bed stand: a knight, carved from Orlesian oak, perched atop a rampant steed.  His brow knits together._

_“You kept it,” he murmurs._

_“The Order allowed me to bring a few possessions from home.” She takes a step toward him. “Is there something you wish to discuss, John?”_

_He walks toward her bed and sits down—then, suddenly embarrassed, he stands up, walks over to her desk, looks down at the paper below._

_“Do you remember,” he says eventually, “how we used to chase each other around the vhenadahl as kids?”_

_“You were fast,” she admits evenly. “I was faster.”_

_John swallows. Nervously he runs a finger along the edge of her ink quill, his light touch easily pushing the feather around on her desk. “Remember how we’d play Healer under the tree sometimes?”_

_Sulahnni does not smile. “Back then I was very curious about human anatomy.”_

_“I loved you even then,” he says, finally looking at her, eyes shining._

_“I loved you too,” she says. “Even though Nyssa forbade me.”_

_“We were pretty stupid kids, weren’t we? A human and an elf. Now a Templar and a mage.”  He chuckles bitterly, without any humor or emotion. “A Tranquil, I suppose.”_

_“Ours was not something ever meant to last,” she agrees coolly._

_His fingers twitch, and the quill falls off the desk._

_“I didn’t rape you,” he mutters. “Please, Su, tell me I didn’t rape you.”_

_Sulahnni’s eyes are lifeless, cold._

_“I may not feel things as I once did,” she says after many long moments. “But I still have the same brain, the same body and memories. And I still have consent, John, or the lack of it.”_

_She takes another step toward him, but he recoils from her._

_“Ser Alrik has me do things I do not consent to,” she says. “You, John, do not. You never have.”_

_“I won’t ask you anymore,” he says, voice wavering. He shoves the heels of his palms against his eyes. “It’s wrong, I-I know that now. I guess I always did. I just—I only wanted—”_

_“You’re crying, John.”_

_“I’m sorry, Sulahnni,” he chokes. “Really, I am.”_

_He leaves without another word._

***

Two weeks after the Tribunal, George Rattan comes home one last time. He is sober, and in his boot is a brand new dagger. He knows what needs to be done; he just wants to say goodbye to Mattie and his four little girls first.

But when he opens the door, he notices something on the table. It is a small wooden chevalier, a memento from his brief time in Orlais, which he once gave to his son as a toy. George staggers when he sees it; he’d thought John had lost it long ago.

Under the wooden knight is a letter written in precise, steady hand:

> _To the survivors of John Rattan:_
> 
> _A long time ago, before I came to the Gallows, John Rattan would visit me in the alienage. We were friends then, and he gave this to me before I left. I suspect you may desire its return._
> 
> _As John’s family, you should know that the Inquisitor’s report is factually incorrect on several counts. I knew your son in the Gallows. He loved me, even though I could not love him back, but he never asked anything of me I was not willing to give; for a Tranquil is not an empty vessel, and the mind and the body have their own needs, apart from emotional satisfaction._
> 
> _I loved John once, back when I was capable. If I were able, I should have continued to love him, for he was a good man and a loyal friend. While I cannot say that I shall miss him, I can objectively conclude that the Order, and Kirkwall, is much the poorer for his death._
> 
> _Sulahnni  
>  Formari Mage  
>  9:34 Dragon_

George takes the dagger out of his boot and lays it on the table, next to the letter. Then he climbs into bed with his wife, for the first time in months, and does not weep but sighs, long and low, as if this exhalation were his last.


	93. Market Day

Mother leans heavily on Carver’s arm, her tiny fingers wrapped around his bicep as if the Hightown market were a hurricane and he the only tree to cling to.

“So many people here,” she tuts disapprovingly at the sea of colors, banners and faces. “Sunny days always seem to lure out those with more coin than sense.”

“Like us.” He means it as a joke, of course, but even Carver can tell his voice is too high and strained to carry a punch line. Mother chuckles politely anyway.

“We don’t have to stay,” she offers.

Carver clenches his shoulders together in a rough approximation of a shrug and covers her hand with his own sweaty palm.

“S’alright.” He manages a weak smile. “Let’s get your ribbons.”

Carver can feel Mother’s eyes lingering on him, but he does not let himself falter; this is their first outing in months, and he won’t ruin it by admitting how weak a man he has become, to be so disoriented by a simple crowd of shoppers.

Markets have always been special for the two of them: When Carver was young, Mother used to take him into town for hours to haggle over meat and candle wax; and when they returned, laden with supplies and sweets, even Garrett would sometimes betray jealousy over their adventures. Even after they came to Kirkwall, he and Mother kept up the old tradition, the two of them sneaking up to the Hightown promenades after dark, peeking behind the stalls, parading themselves around like lords and ladies.

One of Carver’s happiest memories is coming here right after he enlisted, and purchasing a kebab for Mother with coin from his own purse; sitting on a ledge and watching the juice dribbled down her chin. That seems so long ago, as if it happened to different people in a different city.

Mother tugs him toward a stall, where laid out before a bored merchant are hundreds of ribbons in all colors and sizes and trims. She lifts up one that sits right on the edge closest to her. 

“I’ll take it,” she tells the stall owner.

But Carver lays a hand on hers.

“Stop it, Mother,” he says. “You can take your time.”

“But—“

“I’ll be alright,” he lies.

She nods falteringly and sets herself to puttering about the stall, lifting up ribbons here and there, lace ones and silk, purple and gold. She doesn’t peer at any of them particularly closely, however, and Carver gets the distinct impression she’s just killing time—especially when, after a few moments pass, she picks up the same ribbon as before and gives the stall owner some coppers.

“But that’s the first one you picked up,” he says irritably.

She shrugs. “I liked that one. It matches my eyes.”

Carver glowers at the flagstones under his feet. “You didn’t even barter,” he mutters.

“I’m hungry,” she says lightly. “Let’s get something to eat.”

She tugs on his arm away from the crowd and toward a stall by the edge of the market, where she purchases two grilled drumsticks gleaming with sauce. Together, they sit on a wide ledge next to some flowers, summer daisies swaying cheerfully in a sunbeam.

“You’re not eating,” says Mother, her chin glistening with meat juice.

Carver doesn’t want to explain that he doesn’t know how many bites a drumstick has, or why it matters in the first place, so he merely says, “I’m not hungry.”

“You could’ve told me before I bought you one,” she says irritably.

He doesn’t respond. When she finishes her drumstick, he hands her his, and she eats that one too.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” Mother says, wiping the meat juices from her mouth with the sleeve of her dress. A small stain blooms, but she pays it no mind. “Just you and me, like in Lothering. It’s nice.”

Carver remains silent, suddenly feeling exhausted and old. 

“I do wish your brother had come along, though,” she adds. “I worry about him. He spends all his time running about with that pirate girl, or that Anders fellow.” She shudders, fidgeting her greasy fingers. “Such intense countrymen.”

Carver watches her for a long moment. “I thought you said Anders reminded you of Father.”

“I did.” Mother smiles sadly, the lines around her mouth deepening. “That’s what worries me.”

She looks out toward the crowd of shoppers, which has grown thick and noisy in the mid-day sun.

“I miss Bethany,” she says.

“I don’t,” Carver mutters.

Mother turns to him, her mouth dangling open. “Carver Hawke! How can you say such a thing?”

Frowning, he looks down at the flagstones and doesn’t even bother wishing he could explain.

“Mother,” he says after a time, still not looking at her. “I think there’s something broken in me.”

Carver starts when he feels her press the back of her hand to his cheek gently and hold it there, not stroking, not soothing, just one touch to another.

“I know, sweetheart,” she sighs.

“I—“ Carver turns his hands over again and again in his lap. “I don’t know how I can put it back together again.”

“Neither do I.” She drops her hand and stares into the mass of people, her gaze lost somewhere among the colors and faces. “I wish I did. I wish I could just kiss your knee and make it all okay again.”

Then she takes his hand in hers, and Carver looks up, finally, their blue eyes meeting once more. “But I know this much,” she says, squeezing his hand, “whatever you’re going through, you aren’t alone. You have Garrett. You have me. You even have Gamlen.”

Carver chuckles. “You can keep Gamlen.”

“Too late,” she says with a smirk. “He’s yours now.”

Carver grimaces and interlaces his fingers with hers, and Mother’s smile fades away.  “What I mean to say is: you have your family. You will always have us.”

Carver stills, holding his next breath for a long time before letting it go.

“It means less when half your family is dead,” he replies, extricating his hand.

“No, it doesn’t,” she’s quick to respond. “Those we love never truly leave us. We carry them inside, always, to be our light in the dark.”

“If you say so,” he mutters, flushing.

“Oh, Carver,” says Mother. “You remind me of your father so much sometimes. But the best of him is still in you. It’s what makes you try so hard.”

Carver blinks back the sudden sting in his eyes.

“I do miss Father,” he says.

“Me too,” she whispers. “Every day.”

Without looking at her, Carver slowly leans his head on Mother’s shoulder and rests it there for a time.

Then she pats her hand on his knee. “Come on, sweetheart,” she musters. “Shall we go find some candle wax next?”


	94. The Final Sacrifice

Carver doesn’t open the door to the barracks so much as stagger against it, nudging the wood with a shoulder too weak to even lift the rest of his arm. A plague in the alienage has left the mess hall severely understaffed, and two back-to-back shifts of lugging trash and washing dishes and wondering if Merrill is dead has left him almost as tired as he used to feel at the end of a day in the hole.  

“I am Carver Hawke,” he mouths the words without really thinking about them. “I am from Lothering, in the country of Ferelden.”

But he falls silent, for he is not alone in the barracks.

On the edge of Paxley’s bunk sit Paxley and Moira, whose face is wet, blotched, her ridiculous hair all a-tangle. Paxley’s arm drapes across her shoulders, and she sags into him, like a sail without any wind in it. Moira spares Carver a glance, then, sniffling, buries her head in Paxley’s shoulder.

“You’re crying,” says Carver. Moira doesn’t stir or make any indication that she’s heard him, so he tilts his head instead at Paxley, who shoots him a sour glare. “Why is she crying?”

“Not now, man,” sighs Paxley, his hand rubbing soothing circles on Moira’s shoulder.

“Emeric,” her voice is muffled by Paxley’s neck. “Emeric is dead.”

“Oh,” says Carver.  “A heart attack or something?”

“No, you idiot,” she shrieks. Moira lifts her head, nostrils flaring, her fists slamming against her knees. “Blood mages. I found him face down in a Lowtown gutter, half his face gnawed off by shades before it had even gone cold.” 

“Oh,” he says.

“Oh? That’s all you can say is, _oh_?”  She stands, easily shrugging off Paxley’s hand as he attempts to pull her back down to a seated position.

“I’m sorry?” offers Carver.

“Listen to him.” She spins back to Paxley, whose eyes are wide, beseeching. “Now he’s _sorry._ ”

“Mo,” he murmurs. “We talked about this.”

“No.” She wheels back to Carver. Nose pinched, eyes narrow, she looks as if she’s wearing a Feastday mask of her own face. “No, you don’t get to be sorry. You don’t get to be anything, Carver. What do you care anyway? You always thought he was crazy.”

 “A little.” Moira’s jaw strains. By her side her hands curl into fists, all knuckles and tendon. Paxley stands, putting his hands on her shoulders, and Carver knows there’s something going on here that he can’t parse, like someone speaking in a language he forgot. “But,” adds Carver, “Emeric didn’t deserve to die over it.”

“Mo, don’t,” Paxley mutters, a strand of her hair caught against his mouth. Moira’s fists relax, but only slightly. “You know he’s not right in the head.”

Suddenly, Carver realizes he’s angry too: He wants to rip Paxley’s meaty little hands off her—no, that’s not it. He wants to throw something, break something. Smash his head against the wall until he bleeds.

“Emeric wasn’t crazy,” Moira says through clenched teeth. “A killer _is_ out there. He was right, and I’ll prove it.”

She shrugs off Paxley’s hands and, glaring at Carver as she passes, stomps out of the barracks. Carver watches the door long after it slams shut.

When he finally turns away, Paxley is staring at him.

“Nice going, Hawke,” he mutters. “Some man you are.”

Frowning, Carver walks over to his bunk, where with tense, jerky motions he yanks off his shirt. He barely restrains himself from tearing it to shreds. “I don’t recall asking your opinion.”

Paxley chuckles bitterly. He picks up a helmet lying by his bunk and regards it for a moment, and then hurls it to the ground, where it clatters against the grey flagstones, the noise echoing through the room. Carver, halfway through tugging on a fresh tunic, flinches and lets his arms fall to his sides.

“You’ve always been such an entitled little shit,” says Paxley in a low, tense tone. Shoulders slumped, he does not turn to look at Carver. “Thinkin’ you better than us, like you own the place. But ever since you came back from the hole, it’s like—“ He sighs, and looks up to the ceiling. “Maker, it’s like you’re not even _there_ anymore. Like you’re tranked.”

Carver cannot reply, cannot think over his heartbeat, the blood rushing in his ears. 

“Yet she still loves you. Of course.” Paxley chuckles again, a hollow thing, bitter as the wind through the Gallows belfries. Then, suddenly, he kicks his bunk, the iron shrieking as it scrapes across the stones.

Paxley turns, finally, his expression murderous. Carver braces himself for an attack. Welcomes it, really; the motion, the action, something he can understand—anything to diffuse this incoherent rage hammering its way out of his ribcage.

But the punch never comes.

“May the Blight take you, Hawke,” says Paxley, turning back to his bunk, “and maybe leave something for the rest of us.”

Then he yanks his bunk back into its original position and climbs on.

Carver stares at Paxley’s motionless form for a few moments, thinking about how he could tug the bed off his pallet and beat him senseless, how good Paxley’s blood will feel spurting on his knuckles, wet against his skin.

Then, briefly, vividly, Carver remembers Alrik, lying senseless and pulpy in the courtyard, and all his rage surges out of him. He sags onto his bunk, breathless, boneless, even more exhausted than before.

“I am Carver Hawke,” he mutters, clasping his shaking hands together. His vision blurs. “I am Carver Hawke. These things are true. I am Carver Hawke.”


	95. A Chin Like That

Like its namesake, the Blooming Rose smells lurid and intoxicating—it’s a scent undefinable, and one that begs to be followed. But what Carver hadn’t noticed the last time he was here was how stifling the air was too. The incense must be strong, of course, to cover up the spilled liquor and sweat and other, less savory aromas. But it is a smell that Carver now finds just the wrong side of pleasant. 

The lobby is both bigger and smaller than he remembers. Draped across tables and chairs are brightly-colored whores in conversation with potential johns and, lacking that, each other. Nobody pays one more out-of-dress Templar any mind. Quintus, the bartender, chats mildly with Madame Lusine, whose eyes flick briefly to him, while Viveka flits about the tables, her tray laden with beer.

Across the room, a tiny, beautiful creature breaks away from conversation with a few elves and bounds over to him. She has dark hair and pale skin, and large, liquid eyes the color of a forest floor.

“Carver!” She grins at him appreciatively. “Well, slap my ass and call me a horse. How are you, honey?”

“Faith,” he says, managing a smile. The years have been kind to her, although she doesn’t look quite as young and innocent as she once did. He supposes the same could be said about him. “You remember me.”

“Like I could forget a chin like that,” she says, beaming at him. Almost surreptitiously, she slides a hand along his naked bicep. “Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in here for forever.”

He shrugs as casually as he can, trying not to shiver at her caress. It’s the most a woman has touched him in months—he hasn’t been with Moira since the Starkhaven apostates were tranked. “The Order keeps us busy.”  

“Sure it does. Your fellows are in here all the time.” Smirking, she shifts her weight such that Carver can see down her flimsy bodice, down, down into the tempting shadows below. “So,” she purrs. “What’ll it be, the usual?”

Swallowing thickly, Carver wipes his hands on his breeches. “Yes.”

Faith leans back and sticks her palm out. “You know the drill. Two silver, up front.”

Carver digs into his pouch with a shaking hand. “If I pay you extra, do I get more?”

“Ooh, you’ve never asked me that before,” she giggles. “Depends on how much you got, honey.”

He places six coins in her hand. Faith grins, white teeth gleaming.

“Madame,” she calls out. Behind her, Lusine is already at her book, pen in hand. “Cancel the rest of my appointments for the next—“ Faith stops, looks Carver up and down, then licks her lips. ”—for the rest of the night.”

Lusine rolls her eyes and begins to scratch off names.

Paying Lusine no mind, Faith hooks both slender, deceptively strong hands around his arm, and begins to lead him through the lobby. One of her rings digs into his skin like a promise. “You hungry, honey?”

Carver shakes his head, unable to speak. He should be embarrassed at how hard he is right now, from just the feel of her hands on his arm, but all he can think about is how near she is, and how very long it has been. 

As if reading his mind, Faith glances down. When she looks back up, her expression is ravenous.

“I swear,” she murmurs, pressing her breasts against his bicep until he groans. “You got bigger since the last time you were in. The Order must agree with you.”

“Hmm,” he manages, allowing himself to be led up the stairs.

Faith slides her hands down his forearm, until their fingers interlink. She smells like the rest of the Blooming Rose, except sweeter. “What’s up with you, honey? You're quieter than you used to be.”

“Just want to get to it, is all,” he mumbles.

“I suppose, though there’s something to be said for enthusiasm,” she says. When she reaches the top of the stairs, the back of her dress pulls and Carver can see the top of a faded tattoo scrolling across her shoulder bones. Carver remembers licking that tattoo once, and the way she squealed when he did, and his cock aches.  Faith turns toward him. “You still mooning after that doe-eyed elven girl?”

Carver recoils. “Maker. Why would you ask me _that_ right now?”

“Honey, it’s called customization,” she says warmly, invitingly. She folds her arms under her breasts, pushing them up a little, until Carver can see the tips of her piercings poking against the fabric. “If you’re honest with me, you’ll enjoy the experience much more.”

Carver grunts in assent.

“Good boy,” she says. She turns toward him and drapes her arms around his neck, barely-clothed nipple and metal brushing against his chest. “You’ll get your money’s worth tonight, I promise.”

“Let’s just focus on the task at hand,” he croaks.

“Only hands?” She drags one hand along his chin. He’s not even aware she’s leading him to a chamber until she turns to open the door. “I thought I’d treat you to something better, you being my favorite customer and all.”

He chuckles, mouth dry. “I bet you say that to everyone.”

“Doesn’t mean it ain’t true, honey,” she says. She tugs him into the room and closes the door behind them.


	96. Restoration I: Like Old Times

“Carver?” Her voice lilts like a nightingale’s. “Is that you?”

He meets her eyes briefly, once, before he can stop himself, and then quickly busies himself with the straps of his mostly-empty trash satchel. Blood rushes in his ears. Breath becomes a struggle. He cannot answer her, for she is beautiful, far more so than he remembers; and terrible too, because she is no longer just a memory or an abstraction, a prayer to which he clings to get through a day—she is _solid,_ she is _real:_ bone and flesh and dirt, breath and body, everything smaller and larger than recollection allows—and all this is too much, far too much for Carver to take.

Three weeks he’s been coming here. He should’ve known this would happen eventually. Perhaps he didn’t allow himself the hope.

“It _is_ you,” she says, taking a step forward.  

“Merrill,” he mumbles. He desperately wishes he’d been allowed to dress in plate, to hide behind the safety and security of a helmet slit.

“What are you doing here?” She sounds scandalized—hurt, even—and Carver supposes it was too much to expect her to be pleased to see him. And why should she be? The last time they’d spoken, she was very clear: _Stay away from me, Carver Hawke_.

As heat rushes to his cheeks, Carver has the desperate urge to take her by the shoulders and tell her that he’d never had any intention of doing differently.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He shrugs, lifting his gaze but not quite meeting her eyes. Against his ankle, the leaf itches, and he forces himself not to bend down and scratch it. “Picking up trash.”

Merrill crosses her arms. “But why?”

“Court orders. Thousand hours of ‘community service’.” Carver gestures to the satchel that sags against his hip. “Guess they figured cleaning up after elves would teach me my place better than running food to Darktowners.”

Merrill makes a face, but does not reply immediately. Instead she shifts her weight from foot to foot, like a deer about to flee.

Months have passed since their encounter in the service tunnel, though for Carver, it might as well have been a lifetime—and perhaps so too for Merrill, Carver thinks, because she looks older now: strangely graceless, as if a great disappointment ties her closer to the earth.  Or maybe he’s just projecting.

“Does that mean you’ll be around more now?” she says eventually.

“Thousand hours’ worth, at least,” he says.

“Just you, though?”

“Just me.”

He allows himself a brief glance at her face, and the expression he finds there isn’t quite disappointed, but it isn’t quite pleased, either. She does not move, and neither does he, and the silence between them is heavy, like the air before a storm.

“Good to see you,” she blurts, and scurries toward her home.

For many minutes, Carver cannot remember how to move. 

***

The next day, impossibly, she finds him again. This time, she doesn’t call out but walks right up to him, even after he tries to back away. Her head is tilted, hand slightly outstretched, as if he were a wild animal that needed soothing.

“You’re still here,” she murmurs.

“No, I’m back,” he stutters. “Thousand hours, remember?”

“I remember,” she says in that same soft, breathless voice. As her gaze rakes his body, openly lingering on his bare arms, Carver must remind himself there is no intent in her gaze; that she is only startled by his presence, even gauging a potential threat. Nothing more. “Why aren’t you in armor?”

He swallows and wishes she would look elsewhere. When she licks her lips like that, it’s harder to remember she does not—cannot—desire him.

“After the first day, your Hahren forbade it,” he croaks.

Her face falls. “We have a Hahren?”

Carver shrugs. Whatever was in her eyes has faded now, and he breathes a sigh of relief. A few moments pass in silence, and Carver is sure she will walk away—but she doesn’t. 

“Not much trash today,” she offers eventually.

“There never is. You lot pick up after yourselves. Only the Order thinks you have messes that someone needs to come in and clean.” He sighs, his fingers clenching around the straps of his satchel. It says a lot, Carver thinks, that Cullen doesn’t bother sending someone with Carver to make sure that he goes to the alienage like he’s supposed to, though, given the ongoing Tribunal, Cullen probably has more pressing issues to worry about. “It is light duty. Can’t complain about that.”

“Hmm.” Her fingers twist in her tunic, tensing and tugging the fabric into little knobs, and Carver’s shoulders slump a little. He desperately wants to take those hands in his. Three months ago, he probably would have. He wishes it were three months ago. He also wishes he didn’t scare her so much, or at all.

“Have you—“ She makes a choking noise, then clears her throat and, in a lighter tone, continues, “Have you spoken to your brother lately?”

Carver’s fingers twitch. “No.”  

“Oh,” she exhales, her voice softening. He glances at her before she can notice; she has visibly relaxed, the tension easing out of her posture like a deflated sail. “I thought maybe he might have mentioned—well, nevermind.“

“Garrett and I don’t ‘mention’ to each other,” he says.  He bends down to pick up an invisible bit of detritus on the ground.  “If you need information, try my mother instead.”

He expects her to walk away from his curtness, but when he stands back up, he swears she has actually stepped a little closer to him. Carver’s hands begin to shake.

“How is she, by the way?” she says.

“Good, I suppose.". Carver cannot understand why Merrill hasn’t left yet. Surely she has better things to do with her time than talk to him. “Makes potions, complains about the neighbors. She’s apparently got a secret admirer now. I don’t know; it gives her something to do.”

“I miss her. I miss—“ She stops short, cheeks pink. “Many things.”

“Then go over there,” he says, frowning. This conversation, like most conversations with Merrill, has left him feeling slow and off-balance. In a way, it’s comforting—like no matter what, some things will never change. “I’m sure she’d love the company.”

“Not so easy as that.” She smiles at him sadly. “Your brother and I aren’t speaking to one another any longer.”

“Oh.” Carver wishes he found some comfort in that, but, to his surprise, the news saddens him.

After a moment, she turns, squinting at him. “You could ask me why, if you like.”

“You could also just tell me,” he says. “If you like.”

She smiles at him then, a small, secretive thing, as if he’d told her a joke in perfect Elvhen, and Carver feels like a different man; freer, younger, the cracks in his mind restored. But then her smile fades.

“I should go,” she says in a strangled voice. “Things to do. Hahrens to meet.”

“Then go,” he replies.

For a heartbeat, she stays where she is.

“See you around, Carver,” she says, before walking away.

***

Merrill finds him again the following day, and this time, Carver looks forward to her arrival, anticipation a luxury he hasn’t allowed himself in a long time. She brings with her a vhenadahl fruit—an excuse, she says with a smirk, for Carver to take a break from his hard work.

She leads him to an alley behind her house, just out of sight. He sits on a crate, and she squeezes in next to him. Their knees touch. He jerks away, and it takes every ounce of control he possesses not to leap off the crate and sprint down the alleyway.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, frowning.

“No,” he says. He counts bricks on the wall facing them. “No, you’re just—very close.”

“I can stand over there if you like,” she offers hesitantly.

“No,” he blurts, then grimaces at the volume of his voice. “Sorry. It’s just—lately I’ve had problems. With… people. And space.”

Glancing away, she scoots apart from him, and Carver feels like an idiot—but also slightly better.

“I heard about what happened. About what you did,” she says softly. Carver’s jaw tightens. “I think it was very brave of you.”

He chuckles, and she starts at the sound. 

“No, it wasn’t,” he says roughly, not caring that she’s staring at him. “It was thoughtless and stupid and vengeful.”

“Anders says he deserved worse.”   

“He did. And had I kept my wits about me,” he snarls, digging his fingernails into his knees, “I could’ve killed him outright.”

The alleyway falls eerily quiet, the stillness broken only by Carver’s jagged breath.

“You’ve changed,” Merrill whispers, as if not wanting to be heard.

“I’ve grown up.” He shrugs. “I’m my own man now, for better or worse.”

“Maybe you were better off as a boy,” she murmurs.

“Maybe.” He sighs. “But then I’d still be a boy.”

“Hmm,” she says. 

They eat the rest of their fruit in silence, and part ways without another word.

***

Carver is sure that, after his outburst, he will never see Merrill again. But the next day, she returns, another fruit in hand, as if nothing had passed between them. She takes him to the alley again, though this time, she sits not on the crate but against the opposite wall.

“Your brother kept something from me, something I needed to finish my mirror,” she says without preamble, passing him a slice of fruit. “He said it was for the best, as if I were a child still. As if I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Carver groans. “That’s Garrett for you. The arbiter of ‘what’s best’, especially in matters he knows nothing about.”

Merrill grunts, a bitter smile playing at her lips. “He’s always treated me that way, you know, like a young halla in need of tending.” She sighs and stares at the cloud-choked sky. “It might not have been so infuriating if it hadn’t been an ancient artifact of my clan he’d kept. We have so few of them left.”

She falls silent. Idly her fingers pick at a thread dangling from a hole in her leggings.

“Would you—would you have given it to me?” Before Carver can answer, she laughs, the sound high and strained. “Sorry. It’s a foolish question, I know.”

Carver swallows his slice of fruit, the sour-sweet juice tingling his tongue. “Is it?”

Vigorously she nods and won’t look at him. “Of course. It’s a… magical tool. And you’re a Templar.”

“I think I’d give you anything you asked me for,” he murmurs.

Merrill’s fingers fall very, very still.  

“Don’t be stupid,” she says in a strangled voice. Though she still won’t look at him, Carver can see her eyes are wide and clear. “You don’t need to lie to make me feel better.”

“I’m not.”

“But what about your duty to the Order?”

“My duty to my friends is greater,” he says with a shrug.

Merrill is about to reply, but Carver hops off the crate before she can. “I should get back to work,” he says. “Thank you for the fruit.”

“Thank you,“ she says, a bit breathless. “I mean, you’re welcome.”

***

“Would you _really_ have given me the Arulin’Holm?”

She’s walking with him now, through the alleyways, helping him spot scraps of paper, bits of clothing. Carver’s taken to waiting for her by the vhenadahl tree when he comes on duty, and they walk together for a time, chatting, joking, sharing fruit. Some days, her fruit peel is the only trash he finds.

“The what?”

“The Arulin’Holm—the tool I mentioned,” she says, blushing.

“If it was magical, well—“ He notices a dirty flier on the ground, its ink smudged and water-blurred. He picks it up; only the words “WHO IS” are still readable. He crumples it and puts it in his satchel. “Yes. I would’ve.”

“Why?”

“Father taught us that magic can't be made safe, but that fear makes men more dangerous than any magic ever could.” Carver smiles at her, and doing so still feels strange, alien, as if he were using his muscles incorrectly—but with her, the action has almost begun to feel natural again. “And I’m not afraid of you.”

She nods thoughtfully. “By all logic,” she says, ”I should be afraid of you.”

His smile evaporates. “Because I’m a Templar.”

“Because—of many things,” she says, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “But I’m not. Well, maybe I was a little—right when you first joined the Order. But not anymore.”  Merrill pauses, and he looks at her just as she looks at her feet. “You make me feel, I don’t know, like I’m back with my clan. No, not like that. Better than that. What I mean to say is,” she sighs a little, “I trust you. I always have. I always will.”

Heart pounding, Carver allows himself the barest feeling of hope, even triumph, before locking it away again.

“Same here,” he says lamely. “I, uh, I like that we’re talking again. It’s like old times.”

She smiles at him, and his stomach flip-flops. “Like old times,” she agrees.


	97. Restoration II: The New Assignment

“Ser Hawke,” says Cullen in an icy voice, his brows crashing together like twin continents. “You did not answer my summons.”

“Hmm.” Carver shrugs, turning back to his bunk and taking out his mess apron. He sees no point in any of this, in the pretense and the posturing, but especially in explaining that he had, in fact, gone to Cullen’s new office; but he’d taken one look at the windowsill, the one that overlooked the apprentice courtyards, and left before he smashed the furniture to pieces with his bare hands. Alrik’s office should’ve been burnt, he thinks, scrubbed clean with fire; or perhaps sealed up like a tomb.

Cullen’s frown deepens. “That’s insubordination.”

“Hmm,” offers Carver, looping the apron around his neck.

Cullen glares for a moment longer, only to sigh suddenly, his shoulders slumping as if he alone kept the Gallows ceiling from crashing down. “I don’t have time for this,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You have a new assignment.”

“I already have an assignment,” Carver replies, pointing to his apron.

“Don’t be thick, Hawke,” growls the Knight-Captain. “And take that thing off. It smells like rotten fish.”

Carver obliges, though however it smells, he stopped noticing long ago. “I don’t mind taking out the trash."

“Then you’ll love this assignment,” Cullen says with a disgusted grimace. “Follow me.”

Cullen leads him out of the barracks and into an empty office, leaning against some lower bureaucrat’s desk as comfortably as if it were his own. Carver closes the door behind him.

“You and your brother once did a favor for the Order,” Cullen begins.

There’s only one time Carver can think of that Garrett ever willingly assisted the Templars. “You mean saving Keran’s life,” he grunts.

Cullen nods and, reflexively, Carver lets out an annoyed sigh. He works with Keran in the mess hall now, though the disgraced recruit is still far too embarrassed, even four years later, to acknowledge that he remembers who Carver is. Just as well, Carver thinks, for he’s not so hard up for friendship that he needs to seek out another Templar stripped of his rank, shunted off with the recruits and the elven hires to do menial labor the others are too good for. What would they talk about? How the Order has wronged them both? Rotten fish? Delightful conversation indeed.

Luckily, Cullen does not seem to notice Carver’s irritation. “You saved many more lives than just Keran’s that day. Tarohne’s cult had penetrated far into our own ranks. It was—“ Bowing his head, he glares at the threadbare carpet, “—not our finest hour, I’ll admit. But according to our sources, the threat may not be as diffused as we initially assumed.”

Cullen rubs his thumb along the sharp edge of the desk as if he were testing a blade—he even checks his fingertip for dust. What he finds there makes him rub his fingers together irritably and grimace.

“Tarohne apparently left failsafe measures in place for her followers to continue her mission, should she be neutralized,” he says. “Books of blood magic, scattered at dead drops around the city.”

Carver remembers when they found Keran caught in the gossamer web, naked and half-desiccated; the look of fascination and terror in Garrett’s eyes, far more paralyzing than his own fear; and he shudders. “How many?”

“Tens, dozens, perhaps. We’re still learning of their whereabouts. But we do suspect that this might involve—“ He lowers his voice to a hush, “—the Fell Grimoire.” 

“Sounds ominous,” says Carver. _Sounds like something Merrill might like_ , he adds silently.

“It’s a summoning tome,” Cullen says darkly.

“Aren’t they all,” mutters Carver.

“The Fell Grimoire doesn’t just summon any old hedge-row pixie, Hawke,” snaps Cullen. “This is a spirit so old and powerful its true name has been forgotten. Imagine the chaos it would wreak upon the city if such a creature were loosed. We cannot allow that to happen.”

Cullen certainly has a flair for the dramatic, Carver will give him that much. “So what do you need me for?”

Cullen sighs, and Carver gets the distinct impression he’s choosing his words carefully. “We think the elves might be connected. Our sources suggest the Mythallen may be planning something as part of their ill-conceived rebellion, and a demon would be an ideal weapon for a group of terrorists. So when you’re in the alienage, keep your eyes open. If you see something strange – anything at all – report it. And contain the threat, if necessary.”

Carver shudders. No wonder Cullen looks so exhausted. “Don’t know what you think I’ll see. I just collect trash.”

“You know also know many of the alienage elves. And trash has a way of collecting in heaps.” Cullen pushes off the desk purposefully, as if leading a charge against an oncoming army. “This is your chance to reclaim your place in the Order, Hawke. Do this right, and perhaps the terms of your sentence might be renegotiated accordingly.”

Carver knows it should be a tempting offer, but he can only think of how, if his community service is revoked, he might never see Merrill again. Still, he can’t refuse the offer without raising suspicion. “What other choice do I have then?” he mutters.

“Good man. Maker watch over you, Hawke,” says Cullen. He starts to stride out of the office, but turns back to Carver, stone-faced once more. “Oh, and one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

Cullen scowls. “Don’t ever make me come looking for you again.”


	98. Restoration III: What Goes Bump in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m headcanoning a little here, as I can’t remember whether or not these creatures are immune to blood magic (I wasn’t a blood mage in Origins, and I never took Merrill to this battle). So for the purposes of “Shadows”, you can assume that they are.

“Spiders?" The lines of Carver’s face soften. "You must be joking, Merrill.”

“What? They eat the crawly things in my house.” She winks at him. “Plus, they’re fuzzy. I like fuzzy.”

“I swear, you can find _anything_ cute,” he chuckles, shaking his head and grinning.

“There it is,” she says, nudging his shoulder with her own. Her eyes gleam in triumph. “You _do_ remember how to smile.”

Cheeks slackening, Carver clutches the strap of his trash satchel and stares down the dark alienage alley. The shadows are impenetrable, almost solid. “Not much to smile about these days,” he grunts.

“Pfft. There’s always something to smile about,” she says, her voice still light, lilting. “Even if you have to make it up yourself.”

Carver starts, his heart flopping into his stomach.  For the hundredth time, he debates telling her about his time in the hole: about the thirty-six bites, about blue sky days and his dreams and counting veins in the leaf. But then he shakes his head.

“What is it?” she murmurs, her green eyes flicking to his mouth and back again. Her lips part, as if tasting the air between them.

“N-nothing.”  Swallowing, Carver tries not to notice how wet her lips are, how inviting the flash of pink tongue and white teeth.  “It’s just—you’re right. As always.” 

The corners of Merrill’s mouth twitch. She licks her lips, and he stares, fascinated.

Down the alley something skitters. Carver jerks back from her. Merrill sighs irritably. 

“What was that?” he grunts.

“Not sure. An animal?” Merrill tilts her head, then wrinkles her nose. “Creators,” she gags, wrinkling her nose, “what smells like the inside of Fenris’s house?”

Carver shrugs and covers his mouth from the suddenly overwhelming stench.

Then from the shadows crawls something grey and twisted, and Carver can barely strangle back a yelp. Carver is no stranger to the oozing, twisted flesh of abominations, but this is unlike anything he has ever seen before, like a corpse chopped into many pieces and stitched back together.  The animal—creature—whatever it is—is wrongness given form: all teeth and muscle, its taut skin stretched over bone and hollow eye sockets. Its long, sinuous tongue drips with foamy liquid. Instead of feet, it has hands. _Human_ hands.

It skitters toward them, and its fingernails scrape like claws in the alley dirt, leaving long trails behind.

“Maker’s balls,” he whispers. “What is _that?”_

“A nightmare,” replies Merrill.

The thing tilts its head, raises its nostrils and sniffs the musty air. Then, snarling, it lunges toward them.

Carver and Merrill push away from each other. The creature slams, open-mouthed, into the wall where seconds prior they’d stood.

Reeling back, it lifts its sightless eyes and gargles weakly. The sound, like a drowning baby, is the worst Carver has ever heard.

He kneels to draw the dagger Isabela gave him from his boot, but before he can stand again, Merrill draws her mage-knife from her hip and scratches the blade against her bare forearm. The blood does not flow down her wrist, however, but hovers around her in a beautiful, crimson fog.

Muttering something in Elvhen, Merrill raises her blood-soaked hand and clenches it into a fist. Carver remembers Chateau Haine, when at the same simple motion, eight of Prosper’s guards dropped to the ground, screaming in agony, as their blood rent from within.

This creature, however, merely sniffs the air and lurches toward Merrill again.

Merrill’s eyes go wide, and Carver can’t think of anything else to do but hurl himself on top of the thing, landing on it heavily and pinning it to the ground. 

Under his weight it squirms, the fingers—bony, bruised, green—scrabbling against the dirt for purchase. Its flesh is rubbery, slippery. The thing smells like stale piss and sickness and something else, something undefinable and unsettling. Like how his father smelled in his final hours. 

Carver grabs his blade and stabs the thing into one of its sightless eye sockets.

The creature wails and thrashes, catching Carver in the solar plexus. He grunts and his hands go slack. The creature slips out from under him.  

Back down the dark alley way it crawls, faster than spiders or Fade spirits or anything else Carver has ever seen, with Isabela’s blade still stuck in its eye.

Merrill gasps and staggers back against the wall, clutching her forearm. 

Pushing himself to his feet, Carver is by her side in an instant. “Are you alright?”

She nods. She nods at a pouch by her hip, and Carver digs into it, pulling out a bandage. She stares, unblinkingly, as he wraps her arm with shaking hands.

“My magic didn’t work on it,” she gasps eventually.

Carver grimaces. “Looks like elven blood magic has its limits.”

 “No, it doesn’t.” She peers down the alley way, where the thing disappeared. “Wounds of the Past works on anything alive, anything with blood in its veins. Unless—“

Carver has finished wrapping her arm but does not let go of her forearm. “Unless what?”

“Unless the thing didn’t have any blood to begin with,” she mutters.

Carver shudders, the motion shaking Merrill’s arm. She turns back to him, and grips his forearm with tight fingers, and the two of them stand there, holding the other in place, swaying slightly.

Merrill speaks first.

“Do—do we go after it?” Her eyes are wide, pupils blown out in terror.

“How can we?” He draws a shaky breath. “We’re not even armed. It took my only weapon.”

She nods, trembling. “That aside,” she mutters. “I think we have to anyway." 

"I think so," he agrees.

Gulping, she squeezes his arm but does not let go.

“Carver,” she mutters, voice shaking. “Whatever that—thing is, I do _not_ think it’s cute.” 


	99. Restoration IV: Old Skills

Carver stares down the dark alley way, heart skipping in his chest, the familiar frustration setting in. Carver knows there’s nothing innately dangerous about darkness. Everything else held equal, it is merely the absence of light. That’s all. He knows this, of course he does; and yet still he here he stands, rooted to the spot, sweaty fingers twisting against the strap of his trash satchel, chasing a breath that refuses to escape the back of his throat.

If Merrill notices his struggle, she makes no sign.

“We may not have weapons,” she says mildly as she tugs off one glove, “but at least we can have light.”

Grunting, she sets her hand alight in spirit fire, small sparks arcing up and down the bones of her hand.

Carver’s reminded suddenly, oddly, of his father; how in his final days Malcolm would turn his fingers to ice, ostensibly to suck on his frozen joints for relief but mostly to prove a point.  

 _It worked when you kids were teething_ , he had gasped, his breath labored, and if there were more explanation, Malcolm was too fatigued to offer it. 

Carver is suddenly glad for her, glad for her strength and her power, and for being here with him at the threshold of darkness. 

“Thanks,” he says, his voice cracking.

Tilting her head at him, she regards him as if he’d just confessed a penchant for the Remigold. “It’s just spirit light, Carver,” she replies.

“I know,” he says, swallowing. “But thanks anyway.”

She smiles with unconcealed tenderness. “You’re welcome, I suppose. Well, shall we?”

Carver nods and together they walk down the alley way, the shadows thick and dancing but remaining outside the range of Merrill’s spirit fire.

Despite the wound Carver had inflicted, the creature left no convenient trail of blood to follow, but that doesn’t matter, for Carver is nothing if not a good hunter. As a child, he and his father would track small game together, rabbit and squirrels mostly, and to Carver’s eternal gratitude Malcolm refused to use his magic on those ventures, hunting with only his “skill and piss”, as he used to say. Father was the one who taught Carver to search for signs, to listen to the dirt, to notice broken sticks and fluttering leaves.  Father also taught Carver how to spit and swear, and piss with the wind—skills Carver found no less useful in the years to come.

He wonders what Father would think of the terrifying, bloodless creature, if he would’ve had any insight into its origins or how to kill it. Before the Circle caught him, or maybe it was after—Father was always vague about the details—Malcolm lived for a time as a dockside mercenary; and Carver remembers from his stories that his father saw and encountered many horrible creatures and creations, usually blood magic related. Perhaps he would’ve known what this thing was, too.

Father was a good teacher, if an often absent one (though Carver told himself he never blamed anyone for that), and as he picks his way through the alley, Carver is very aware that if he hadn’t had such good training, he’d never be able to spot the trail now. The alienage, like the rest of Kirkwall, is a chaotic landscape of tumbled crates and rotting sacks, all alike in their ruin. Only by through his familiarity with the neighborhood and the grace of his upbringing – and, of course, Merrill’s fire – can Carver spot the splintered corners of boxes, the shredded banner hems, the crates disturbed an inch out of place.

At his side, Merrill is quiet, very quiet. As he crouches to examine a manhole, he shoots her a worried glance, but she is too lost in thought, brow crinkled, hooded gaze somewhere in the middle distance.

He clears his throat. “You okay?”

“No.” When she looks at him, she bites down on her lip, as if trying not to shout in pain. “Carver, we’ve fought darkspawn, and arcane horrors, and the raised dead. But never anything like--like _that_.” She wrinkles her nose. “And the smell—not like a corpse, not like rot… Carver, what kind of thing could smell like… like…”

Carver’s chest tightens, fear sucking the air from his lungs. “Like dying itself?”

“Yes,” she gasps. Involuntarily, she shivers. “It’s awful.”

“I don’t know. But brace yourself. It’s about to get more awful.” He stands up and brushes his hands on his trousers. “Looks like he went downtown.”

“Into the sewers?” At Carver’s nod, she sighs. “How come the creepy things never hide anywhere pleasant?”

Carver shrugs. “Name me a pleasant place in Kirkwall.”

Merrill thinks for a moment, then nods. “Fair point.”

Carver pulls back the manhole cover, and reels back against the stink of excrement and other waste. Behind the cover is a narrow stairwell, the footing slick and treacherous.

“Maker,” he gags, testing the first step. “At least our friend knows where to go to blend in.” The edge of Carver’s mouth curls up in a humorless smirk. “Well, shall we?”

Carver holds out his hand to her, and Merrill stares at it strangely, as if his hand were disconnected from his arm. Feeling foolish, he’s about to retract his hand when suddenly she takes it; her palm rests cold and clammy against his, a heavy weight to carry, but comforting nonetheless.

She squeezes his fingers, and together they descend into the sewers. 


	100. Restoration V: Dead End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Body horror

Before Carver had come to Kirkwall, he’d never given much thought to sewers: Lothering didn’t have any, and he’d always assumed one reeking cesspit was the same as another. But Maker, how wrong he was. For in Kirkwall there are sewers large enough for men and elves to live in, a foul warren where even fouler men could build shops and hospitals and homes. He thinks of what Thrash and Willis, his old chantry-yard friends, would say about Darktown—of the looks on their faces when he’d tell them of a city so large and rich that people actually sleep in its sewers.

He grins, and for once he doesn’t chastise himself for surviving when they did not.

Like a lily pad floating above its tangled root system, Kirkwall sits atop so many crawling passageways that connect muck and grime to muck and grime, but this particular one is even more disgusting than the usual Darktown fare. Dark, cramped, the passageway is thick with chokedamp and the aftertaste of the Foundry district’s belched fumes. The harsh grind of gears and chains churns just beyond the stone walls. At least, Carver thinks, there aren’t any children begging in here. Small comforts.

But then Carver steps in something disturbingly soft, and he thinks of what an apt metaphor this place is for what his life’s become, and that if he wanted to spend so much of his adult life literally running around in shit, he should’ve stayed in Gwaren and shacked up with that pretty goatherd who'd propositioned him behind the Yellow Wyvern Inn.

From behind him echoes a wet squelch. Merrill groans, and Carver smiles again, fondly.

“Bet you wish you had shoes now,” he calls back to her.

“Why?” Her voice is genuinely curious. “Running around down here would just ruin the leather.”

Despite himself, Carver chuckles. “It’s better that than get all this on your feet.”

“But I can wash off my feet,” she answers.

“You can throw out shoes, too,” he counters.

“And waste the leather?” She sighs exasperatedly. “Humans.” 

Carver shrugs. He knows he should feel more terrified, but as frightening as that abomination in the alley was, being here with Merrill, chatting so easily with her, as if they were two teenagers again, his mood feels lighter than it has in years. 

He rolls his shoulders and with no small effort, steps around a large puddle of slick. “Keep your eyes peeled for anything unusual,” he says, turning back and holding his hand out to her.

Merrill ignores his offer and strides right through the dark liquid.

“Carver,” she says sourly, flinching as she shakes out her wet foot, “this entire _city_ is unusual.”

“Then look for something normal,” he replies.

Shouldering his satchel as if it were a sword sheath, Carver strides down the tunnel with as much purpose as he can muster. Merrill follows a step behind, the light from her spirit fire casting dancing shadows on the weeping stone.

They walk for a long time. Though the corridor curves and bends, it does not fork, merely maintains its inexorable path forward, wherever it leads. The sound of crunching machinery grows louder, until Carver can barely think or breathe or focus on the path ahead of him for the oppressive weight of it in his ears.

Merrill grabs his shoulder and shouts something at him.

“I can’t hear you,” he yells, but his words are swallowed.

She rolls her eyes and jabs her finger down the passageway.

Ahead the way is black, pitch, as if an ebony curtain hung suspended between them and the path. The light from her spirit fire does not penetrate the shadow.

A familiar frission of panic snakes up Carver’s spine. He reaches toward Merrill’s arm to turn them both back, but she is already gone, walking toward the blackness, unflinching, unafraid.

In horror, he watches as the spirit fire winks out and the darkness swallows her whole.

“Merrill!” he screams. “Merrill!”

His heart leaps into his throat. For a long moment, Carver cannot move or breathe; and it’s only him and the pitch, no light anywhere to be found. His knees tremble. He has the urge to collapse on the ground, to curl in on himself like a pillbug, a snake head eating its tail. It’s an urge stronger than anything else he has ever wanted.

But Merrill is out there, somewhere. So he forces himself to swallow, to breathe, and he hurls himself in the direction in which he thinks he saw her disappear.

Something slimy and cold slaps against his face, forcing his eyes closed. When he opens them, Merrill stands beside him, frowning, face gently illuminated in spirit fire.

Carver grabs her shoulders and pulls her to him. 

“Maker,” he whispers, shuddering as he holds her close. Her hair smells like sewer water. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Carver,” comes the muffled reply. Merrill hesitates a fraction of a moment before placing her hands on his chest and pushing him back. She does not meet his eyes. “What’s gotten into you?”  

“You disappeared,” he says, still gasping for breath. “Everything did. No light. Anywhere.”

“I knew it.” Merrill glowers behind them. “Magic. Someone has placed some very powerful wards here.”

“Wards,” he repeats, knowing that the words coming out of her mouth make sense, but still too shaken to truly parse their meaning. He lets his hands linger on her arms for a moment longer, steadying himself, and Merrill makes no move to shake him off. Then Carver frowns. “Wait a moment. I can hear you now.”

“Exactly,” Merrill says, her lips forming a thin line. “Where did all the Foundry noise go?”

Carver finally feels calm enough to look around, or at least to look anywhere but at Merrill. Behind them is blackness, but before them is only a stone wall.

“A dead end,” he whispers. “Why would anyone put wards around a dead end?”

“Because it’s not,” she replies, fascinated. “It’s a door.”

Placing her hand on the stone wall in front of them, Merrill mutters something in a strange dialect of Elvhen that Carver’s sure she never taught him. Briefly a sigil flares to light along the stone. With a groan, the wall sinks back and moves away, revealing a large, open chamber.

The stench of decay and rot floods out, and Carver reels back, gagging. Light from Merrill’s spirit fire dances along several broken shapes strewn about the ground like rag dolls.

“Elgar’nan,” Merrill gasps, a hand over her mouth. “Are those—bodies?”

Carver spots a severed foot, maggots wriggling out of the meat. He turns away, swallowing back bile. “Lots of them, it seems,” he manages eventually. “Poor sots.”

Merrill stares unblinkingly into the room. “Carver.”

“What?”

“Does this count as normal?”

“No,” Carver mutters. “It definitely does not.”


	101. Restoration VI: The Abomination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Body horror

Covering his mouth with his hand, Carver takes a step inside the open room. It’s almost like Ostagar in here—the bodies and their pieces strewn in haphazard angles like directionless compasses – but the stench, Maker, now _that_ is something entirely different. Rot, mixed with something sickly sweet, almost like lilies. And is that…tobacco smoke?

Carver thought nothing could smell worse than the darkspawn horde. He was wrong.

Suddenly Merrill’s eyes widen, and she chokes out a noise halfway between a gasp and a sob. Her hand begins to shake, which sets the light and shadows cast from her spirit fire dancing along the prone bodies.

“Carver,” she moans. In the juddering fire, the corpses seem to move. “Th-their _ears_.”

Carver peers down at the body closest to him—many, but not all, of the corpses still have their heads attached—and behind the sticky, grime-soaked hair is a pair of gracefully sloping ears. He looks at another. That one too.

Elves. All of them.

“Fuck,” he gags.

Suddenly there’s a rustle, and a body shifts. Something glints in the dim firelight.

Then there is a wailing keen, the same horrible, blood-curdling scream from the alleyway, like a child drowning.

Carver can barely stagger backward before a heavy weight rushes him and pins him to the ground. The breath is knocked out of him. From far away, he hears Merrill scream his name.

He can’t see it well in these shadows--mostly just broken teeth and tongue—but Carver would know it’s the creature from the alienage even if Isabela’s knife weren’t still caught in its sightless eye socket. The stench alone—it breathes, hot and moist, onto Carver’s cheeks, and he barely chokes back bile. 

Carver struggles weakly to push it off, but fingers, far too many fingers, dig into his jerkin, clutching the belt buckles around his waist for purchase. Something sulfuric drips onto his cheek. It sizzles. He gasps in pain.

Then there is a thud, something heavy colliding with the creature above. With a grunt it rolls off Carver.  No time to think—he snakes out his arm and grabs Isabela’s knife, sliding it from its purchase in the papery flesh. No blood pours out from the unstaunched wound.

Above him is Merrill, severed foot in hand, looking like she’s about to vomit.

Carver gets to his feet as the creature skitters back into the shadows, unseen. Fingernails on stone make noises like a thousand rat claws, scrabbling in the dark.

On his feet Carver sways unsteadily. “Come and get me,” he shouts.

That’s when the first body begins to move.

The corpse lifts into the air, swirls around on an air current, hands swaying in the air like a dancer. Then another rises to join it. And another. A severed hand begins to tremble and shake; then it too levitates. Feet, teeth, knuckles, shins. Dozens of half-rotten bodies and severed parts hover into the air. They begin to orbit some central point, circling faster and faster—then they come together, coagulating in a broken, lumpy mass of bubbled flesh and cracked bone.

“Oh shit,” breathes Carver.

He feels a hand tug his jerkin back, and the shock of it nearly makes him release Isabela’s knife.

“Carver,” Merrill screams in his ear. “We have to get of here!”

But he can’t turn away, he can’t look away, he can’t even breathe because standing before him now in the half-lit chamber is a giant, hulking man-shaped _abomination_ , too large for the room, fingernails and hair and rictuses stitched into its flesh, a pointed ear poking out of its knee, and hands everywhere, too many hands, fingers stretching out for him.

“Carver,” Merrill pleads, grabbing his arm.

He stumbles and his feet then remember how to move, and suddenly he’s running, back through the stone door and the curtain of darkness, but he’s too terrified to panic about it now, and besides, Merrill’s hand grips him tight, the pressure of her grasp bruising and real. They emerge from the darkness, and the tunnel explodes in cacophony, grinding gears and screaming chains, and the noise makes sense somehow, maybe its only thing that does any longer, because _what the ever loving fuck was that_?

They run and run, down back the corridor, and they don’t look back, not until they’re out of the sewer, taking the stairs two steps at a time, three in his case, and somehow it’s night time now but Carver doesn’t care. He’s shaking, too, but he doesn’t care about that either. He hurls himself on the ground next to Merrill and kicks the sewer grate closed, and it latches closed, thudding like a coffin lid.

Merrill clings to him, breath juddering against his neck, wet face pressed into his shoulder, fingers digging into his waist, and for her sake Carver tries not to think about the feel of the creature’s fingers against his belt buckles, or the saliva that burned against his cheeks. The only consolation he allows himself is that the sewer grate is far too narrow for such a titanic abomination to squeeze through. They’re safe. For now.

“What was that thing,” he whispers eventually, pulling her closer, clutching her as a drowning man does a life raft.

“I don’t know,” she sobs, broken, panicked. She trembles almost as violently as he does. “Awful—I’ve never seen—never anything like—Creators _—oh Carver._ ”

“We’re so fucked,” he mutters, staring at the sewer grate, wide-eyed, terrified.


	102. Restoration VII: If It Moves We Can Kill It

“Merrill.” Carver scrabbles against the dirt to haul himself up, the fading adrenaline making his limbs stiff and ungainly. He wobbles on his legs, scared, spent. “Merrill, wait. Please. Merrill.”

But the elf is already turning the corner, her scarf fluttering out of the alleyway. Carver sprints after her.   

“Stop,” he pleads, grabbing her arm.

Merrill whirls around. Tear-tracks stain her grimy face; more unshed tears glisten in her eyes. 

“Let me go,” she commands. She jerks against his grip for emphasis. 

“Merrill,” he says softly. His voice breaks. “Stop. We need to—“  

Carver’s voice falters. To _what_ exactly? To run and hide and never look back? Suddenly, Carver remembers squatting in the forest undergrowth with his father, sunshine in his eyes, a twig in his father’s beard, red clay smeared across Malcolm’s nose. How easy chasing rabbits now seems, how child-like and innocent; a too-simple training for the reality of predators and prey. Even the long night at Ostagar offered no adequate preparation for _this_.

“—to keep our heads about this,” he finishes in a deeper, stronger voice.

Merrill glares down at his hand. “I said, let me go.”

Guiltily he releases her arm, even though he’s sure that once he does, she’ll storm off once more. But instead of fleeing, she simply glares askance at the alleyway behind him. Then she crosses her arms, shivering into them. When she finally looks up at him, her eyes are hard, brilliant.

“That creature has been taking elves,” she hisses, rubbing her elbows briskly, hunching into the movement, “and nobody has said a _word_.”

“You don’t know that,” he offers without conviction.

“Oh? Where are the guards then? The Templars?” Her voice is ragged, like too much wind through a torn sail. “Why aren’t Aveline’s men scouring the alienage for that--that-- _thing_?”

Carver shifts uncomfortably, and his gaze slides to his feet. 

“I don’t know,” he says, voice tight with self-loathing. “Maybe nobody knows they’re gone yet.”

Merrill glares at him. “There were dozens of bodies, Carver. _Dozens._ ”

“We don’t know how long they’d been there,” he flounders, trying to remember the scene—or whatever he can besides the awful current of maggoty body parts floating in the air, congealing into solid flesh. His brow furrows.

Merrill presses a hand to her mouth and makes a gurgling, disgusted noise. “Well,” she gags. “Aren’t you full of comfort.”

“It would explain why the Guard isn’t here." He wishes suddenly that he were back in the hole, safely ensconced behind four solid walls and no exits or entrances; a small womb to keep the world out as much as him in. “One elf here or there goes missing—you know as well as I do that happens all the time.”

Merrill does not reply.

“At least it’s trapped for the moment,” sighs Carver, tossing a nervous glance back down the alley. “Now we can plan our next move.”

“Kill it,” Merrill replies immediately, over-enunciating the consonants. “That’s our next move.”

Carver rolls his eyes.

“Sure thing, Genitivi,” he snaps. “And how do we do that?”

Merrill lets out a huff of frustration. She looks dangerous, hungry; if he weren’t so terrified, Carver would definitely be turned on.

“You saw my dagger. Weapons don’t hurt it,” Carver adds, continuing in softer tones, the same voice with which he used to calm ponies in Lothering. “And your blood magic just made it mad.”

“If it moves, we can kill it,” she mutters.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Carver squeezes his eyes shut, trying to think, to plan, anything to shove down the panic rapidly rising in his throat. “Maybe it’s like those things Garrett saw in the Deep Roads. The golems. Nothing could hurt those sons of bitches.”

Merrill’s eyes narrow.  Her chin tilts defiantly upward.

“Nothing _they_ had could hurt them,” she murmurs.

“And what are you going to do?” Carver frowns at her. “Rip it apart with your bare hands?”

Merrill’s lips squeeze into a tight, colorless line. “If I have to.”

She pushes past him then, their shoulders colliding heavily. Carver scoots around her to angle himself between her and the alleyway. His stretches out his hands, in what he hopes is a placating gesture. “Merrill. Listen to yourself.”

“Stand aside, Carver.” She glares at him, brow furrowed, hands balled into fists. Her voice is like scraped together flintstones. “Either help or don’t, it doesn’t matter to me. Just don’t get in my way.”

Startled, Carver drops his hands. For a long moment, he doesn’t move.

“I only meant,” he says softly, “that you’ll need your staff.”

Merrill lets out a puff of breath she’d been holding.

“Fine,” she snaps. “But then we go back.”

Carver nods. “Then we go back.”


	103. Restoration VIII: The Plot Thickens

Merrill wrenches open the door to her house with so much force that it slams against the outer wall, sending debris clattering off the roof tiles. She disappears inside without looking back.

Carver does not follow. He always knew that Merrill’s oh-so-confused act was mostly that: an act, a mask, a way to hold the world at arm’s length — for whatever reason, he didn’t pry. But this _fury,_ this violence – he’s never seen her before quite like this, roaring about like a sleeping dragon awakened –although perhaps, deep down, he’s not as surprised by it as he should be. 

Eventually Merrill returns, two objects in hand. One is her staff. The other –

“Is this one of your table legs?” asks Carver.

Merrill nods, offering him the ill-carved block of wood. “Sorry it’s not a sword. It’s the best I could do, given the circumstances.”

Carver thinks of the heavy oak table he and Garrett had once secreted from the trash heap outside The Hanged Man—the one they’d chosen for Merrill’s new home specifically because its legs had looked so solid. “But how did you…“

Merrill shrugs unapologetically.  “I broke it off.”

Carver’s eyes widen. “Ah.”

If she notices his surprise, Merrill is too preoccupied to register it. “Ready?”

Carver nods silently, and together, they walk back to the alleyway.

When they arrive at the sewer grate, however, Carver’s heart skips. The rusty iron grate is wide open, the unlatched lock sitting primly on a crate a few feet away. 

Merrill spits something foul-sounding in Elven. 

“I don’t understand,” says Carver, voice rising. He tugs at his hair. “We locked it from the outside. I remember locking it. You saw me lock it. _I locked it._ ”

“Well, someone _un_ locked it,” she grumbles. “Obviously.”

Without hesitation, Merrill starts down the narrow staircase. But she hasn’t descended more than two steps when something scrabbles against the roof tiles above.

They both freeze. Meeting Merrill’s eyes, Carver points a finger upward. She nods. Slowly she raises her staff, the dimly-glowing talisman at the tip casting pale illumination up to the rooftops.

In the feeble light, a set of sharp teeth gleam.

Merrill moves first, shooting a bright bolt of spirit lightning at the glinting teeth. The bolt hits the creature and it screeches. Fingers twitching, it loses its grip on the rooftop and plummets to the alleyway dirt below.

“Good shot,” Carver can’t help but call out. In response, Merrill offers a tight, humorless smirk.

When the creature hits the ground, however, it regains its footing immediately, skittering toward the place from which it heard Carver’s voice. Carver brandishes his table leg, ready.

Merrill shoots another bolt, catching it in its flank. A black burn tears into the creature’s leathery skin, ripping it apart as easily knife through paper. This time, however, the thing does not stop; it simply continues its charge toward Carver.

The creature leaps. Wildly, Carver swings the table leg. Wood connects with flesh, knocking the creature against the alley wall. It slides down, cracks blooming in the clay wall from the impact.

The creature snarls, shaking its head, and lunges again.

Carver tries to bring the table leg up again, but the thing is too near, and the creature lands on his chest, the force pushing them both to the ground. Merrill shouts his name as dagger-like teeth sink into his shoulder. Carver roars in pain.

Carver punches the thing, again and again, on its side, on its hands, on its eye sockets. But it does not flinch, nor remove its teeth. Instead, Carver feels a long, slick tongue dart out and lap against his skin, licking his blood, tasting it, _savoring_ it.

Carver shudders in revulsion and doesn’t stop to think, just closes his eyes and murmurs a quick prayer, the first one he can think of, a Holy Smite. 

Above him, the creature goes limp.

Merrill then unleashes a barrage of spirit lightning, blasting the creature off him; Carver groans as the teeth rip from his shoulder. The creature, however, does not move or react from the blows, even as its skin blackens and curls away from the muscle. It remains as limp as a rag-doll.

Carver unsteadily regains his feet, hand to his ruined shoulder, as Merrill continues to throw lightning at the thing. The creature’s skin turns black and pulpy. Bits of flesh and bone begin to fly off. And still it does not move.

“Merrill,” Carver gasps. “I think it’s dead.”

She pauses, eyeing the creature.

It does not move.

She shoots another blast of lightning at it.

It still does not move.

She walks up to it and, after a moment’s careful inspection, rams her staff through its battered head, cracking the bone.

It does not move.

Finally satisfied, Merrill turns to him, her expression tight and contorted. When she sees his shoulder, however, the tension melts away, and she limps over to him.

“Are you alright?” she gasps, hands hovering above his shoulder.

Carver nods. He rolls his arm, testing the wound, and winces. Those teeth were longer than they seemed.

“I’ll be fine,” he grits. Then he forces a smile. “Maker, Merrill. You’re right scary when you’re angry.”

She smiles up at him. “I know. Let’s get you to Anders.”

Then from the still open sewer grate comes a tired groan. Startled, Carver yanks Merrill behind a stack of crates.

A robed man emerges from the stairwell. A hood obscures most of his face, but Carver sees a flash of grey hair, a long, aquiline nose, high cheekbones. In one of his hands is a small canvas sack; the other clutches a worn, unadorned staff.

Carver’s heart sinks. A mage.

The man notices the pulpy, broken creature crumpled against the alley wall, and, for a moment, he goes very, very still. Then he flicks his fingers, and the heavy sewer grate closes without so much as a whisper. He sprints down the alley away from Carver and Merrill, disappearing behind a corner

The two scamper out from behind the crates and give chase, but when Carver turns the corner, the man has already vanished. 

Huffing, Merrill turns to Carver. “Friend of yours?”

Carver shakes his head.

“Never seen him before. He’s not one of ours,” he mutters, eyes narrowing.

Merrill swears again in Elven.

“The robes, though, those I do recognize,” adds Carver. “Starkhaven colors.”


	104. Restoration IX: Healed

The lantern is lit, its pale gleam like a lighthouse beacon in the evening chokedamp. Next to Carver, Merrill sighs in relief.

“Thank the Creators,” she exhales. Merrill re-adjusts his arm around her shoulders and draws him closer. Under his weight she feels like iron. “I was afraid he might’ve closed for the night.”

Merrill’s strong fingers press into his side. More heat rises to Carver’s cheeks, and he feels a little woozy, though it’s probably just from all the blood loss. He raises a hand to the bandages on his shoulder, or tries to anyway, before the effort tires him out and he drops his hand weakly back to his side.

“You didn’ ha’ ta carry me here,” Carver slurs.

“Shush.” Merrill’s voice is tight and strained. “Save your strength for the healing.”

She kicks open the door; as she does, Carver notices that the top of her foot is still stained in creature bits. He starts to giggle uncontrollably. Merrill shoots him a worried glance.

“Stay with me, Carver,” she whispers.

He wants to tell her it’ll be alright, that it’s just the tooth between her toes, but he can’t manage any response other than sagging against her.

The clinic is mostly empty, save two men huddled together at the back of the room. One of them is Anders—Carver would recognize those dead turkeys on his shoulders anywhere. The other Carver can’t quite focus on, but with that beard, it almost looks like Garrett.

“Carver!” shouts the man, who somehow sounds like Garrett, too. But that can’t be right. Why would Garrett be in Darktown? Doesn’t he have a fancy castle upstairs? Next to all the Orlesians?

But as the man sprints over and grabs Carver by the buckles, he can see that it is, in fact, his brother. 

“What happened?” Garrett roars, hauling Carver to an examining table.

Carver winces. Always with the shouting. He tries to tell his brother to be quieter, it’s okay, he’s right here, nothing bad will happen, it’s the toe-tal tooth. But nothing comes out of his mouth aside from a weak gurgle.

“His shoulder,” says Merrill. Her hand slides off Carver’s flank and Carver tries to tell her to put it back. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

Anders pushes past Garrett, who does not release his grip on Carver’s shoulders. The healer peers at his hastily-bandaged shoulder. Anders smells like elfroot, and sex, and fish dumplings from that cart outside Lirene’s. Together, the smells are nauseating, worse than the chokedamp. Carver burps threateningly.

“Who did this to him?” Garrett shrieks. Anders gives him a look before gently, so gently prying his hands off Carver’s shoulder straps. Frowning, he deftly begins to cut away the blood-soaked bandage.

“More like a what,” replies Merrill. She looks at the ground, fists clenching. “And I’m not sure yet.”

Her voice sounds so far away. The edges of Carver’s vision are becoming blurry, black. At least he doesn’t feel like throwing up anymore. Or does he?

Carver raises a hand weakly and meets his brother’s eyes.

“It’s alright, brother,” babbles Garrett, taking his hand. “I’m here.”

“I’ wash – wash a nigh’,” gasps Carver, “mare.”

Then he faints dead away.

***

Anders slaps Carver’s hand away. “Quit scratching.”

“It _itches,_ ” Carver snaps.  

Huffing dramatically, the healer starts putting away poultices and potions. His grey pauldron feathers flounce with every movement. “I didn’t heal you just so you could open up another wound.”

“Listen to him, Carver,” adds Garrett in that fatherly tone he _knows_ Carver hates.

Carver rolls his eyes and looks over to Merrill, who leans against the clinic wall, brow furrowed, pointedly ignoring the exchange. Carver frowns and turns back to Anders. 

“Maybe if you healed me better,” he grunts, “it wouldn’t itch so much.”

“Maybe if whatever bit you didn’t use your bone for a chew toy, I could’ve healed you better,” snaps Anders, not even turning around. “And you’re welcome, you tit.”

Carver glowers at the floor, trying to ignore the itch.

“Thanks,” he mumbles.

“Don’t mention it,” Anders replies loftily.

“Describe it again,” commands Garrett, dragging his gaze from Anders’ turned back to Carver.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Carver says peevishly. “I already told you what we saw.”

From the corner, Merrill makes a noise like a spooked halla.

“Then this time, make it make sense,” Garrett growls.

Carver releases a sharp, barking noise, more exhale than laugh. “What part of ‘a creature made of body parts tried to suck my blood’ do you find so confusing?” 

Garrett pauses for a moment before his mouth finally quirks into a half-smirk.

“We never can just stumble upon bunny rabbits, can we?” says Garrrett. “Always ogres, or wyverns, or vampiric flesh-monsters.”

Carver feels the corners of his lips likewise twitch upwards. “It’s the family curse.”

Garrett nods appreciatively. “Father would be so proud.”

“I’m going home,” Merrill announces suddenly, and starts walking out the door.

“Merrill!” Startled, Carver leaps off the examination table. He meets Garrett’s eyes briefly before dashing after her. “Wait!”

By the time he catches up to her, though, she’s already halfway down the stairs outside Anders’s clinic. She turns to him, looking at the ground, at the walls, at the entrance to the Amell cellar, anywhere but at Carver or his bared shoulder.

“You should be more careful.” She frowns. “Anders can’t fix blood loss. You could really hurt yourself.”

He swallows, his throat suddenly dry. His head does still feel a little light.

“Merrill.” He puts a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs it off. “Why’d you run out just then?”

“I just wanted to see that you were healed,” she mutters. “And you are.”

“Thank you for bringing me to Anders. And, um, for keeping it together. Back there.” He smiles softly. “At least one of us did.”

She regards him curiously for a long moment.

“Carver, I’m—“ She sighs and looks down at her feet. “I’m _sorry_.”

“For what?”

“For losing my temper,” she chokes out. “Back in the alley. I-I nearly got you killed.”

Carver chuckles with more levity than he feels. “It’ll take more than a demon-creature to gut me.”

She shakes her head, frowning. “It almost had you, Carver. I saw it shake you like a mabari with a squirrel—“

“Merrill.” Carver holds up a hand, and she closes her mouth. “Let me bluster. Just this once.”

Merrill looks away. “Fine. But I still put you in danger. I just—I got so… so angry. And scared. But mostly angry.” She squeezes her eyes shut and goes very still. When she looks back at him, unshed tears gleam in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Carver. I really am.”

Gently he puts his hands on her elbows and holds them there. This time, she does not shrug him off.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s okay to be angry.”

“No, it isn’t,” she grits through clenched teeth.

Carver hesitates, wanting to draw her into an embrace but not quite knowing if she’d let him. He settles for rubbing his thumbs along her forearms in what he hopes is a soothing rhythm.

For a few heartbeats, she lets him. Then she crosses her arms, breaking his hold.

“I really should get back,” she mutters, “before the gangs come out.”

“Are you sure,” Carver offers, “you wouldn’t be safer staying with—with my mother for a few days?”

Merrill sighs.

“The alienage is my home now, for better or worse,” she says. “That includes all the pests.”

“But that man we saw—“

“I’ll keep an eye out.” She presses her fingers against her forearms, as if suppressing a shiver. “Tomorrow I’ll go look for him.”

“Just—“ Carver runs a hand through his hair, feeling the sweaty strands stick up on end. “Be careful, Merrill.”

Merrill regards him, a strange expression in her eyes. Then, slowly, she reaches a hand out and smooths down his hair, tucking one lock behind his ear. When she draws back her fingers, he notices they are shaking.

“You too,” she whispers.


	105. Restoration X: A Graceful Exit

Carver leans against the craggy clinic façade, arms crossed, hooded eyes fixed on the stairwell where Merrill disappeared. Half of him wants to sprint after her, all the way to the alienage, but unlike his brother he knows when to allow a graceful exit.

Carver runs a hand through his hair, trying to ignore the lingering tickle of Merrill’s fingers playing with his bangs, and the traitorous surge of heat that pulsed briefly through him when she tucked them gently, so gently, behind his ear. He is no fool. Merrill is off-limits, he knows, especially now that his head is such an Ostwick scramble. But Maker help him, like a moth to a flame he always keeps fluttering back.

Sighing, Carver shakes his head out like a wet mabari. It doesn’t help.

Abruptly the clinic door opens, and a slightly rumpled Garrett appears. His collar is crooked, front bangs askew. Hand lingering on the door, he turns back, smiling into the room behind him. “Don’t work too late,” he says in a soft tone Carver has only ever heard him spare for Dog; then, gaze still fixed into the clinic, he lets the door swing shut.

When Garrett turns around, softness still playing on his lips, he notices Carver, finally, and, squawking, flinches several inches backward. 

“You bastard,” he gasps, clutching a hand to his heart. “Maker, it’s a good thing not all Templars are as good at sneaking as you.” 

Carver shrugs noncommittally. 

“Thought you’d gone back to home sweet Gallows already.” Garrett drops his hand awkwardly and eyes the Amell cellar entrance like a card cheat identifying the exits. He grins, his teeth a flash of white against his carefully-clipped beard. “Did you stay to make sure I’d make it home in one piece? I’m touched.”  

“So,” says Carver, unwilling to be drawn in by Garrett’s distraction. “You and Anders.”

For a moment, the muscles around Garrett’s mouth slacken. Then, like a noblewoman readjusting her party hat, the casual smirk slides back into place once more. 

“Took you long enough to notice,” he chirps.

“Took you long enough to tell me,” sighs Carver. “Oh, wait. You didn't.” 

Now it’s Garrett’s turn to shrug noncommittally, as he starts walking toward the cellar. “It didn’t seem relevant.”

Carver snorts dismissively. A thousand retorts flash through his mind – _that’s not the point, why didn’t you trust me, it’s not like I couldn’t tell, if he hurts you I’ll brand him myself—_ before he settles on something that doesn’t feel like admitting too much to a brother who refuses to take him seriously enough as is. “Just be careful,” he mutters. “I can’t protect you both.”

At this, Garrett laughs, a dry, bitter sound, like scraping too little jam on toast.

“Maker save us from your _protection_ ,” he says, drawing a skeleton key from his pocket. Without looking at Carver, he begins to fumble with the cellar door lock.

Scowling, Carver stomps over to his brother, who pointedly does not raise his head. As the tumbler falls into place, Carver slams a hand against the cellar door, keeping it in place. 

“Let me in,” says Garrett, fingers clenching around the door handle. “Don’t be an ass.”

“You can’t treat him like one of your casual flings.” Garrett refuses to meet Carver’s eyes, and Carver feels the anger, hot and familiar, bubble within him. “You know that, right? The man doesn’t do half-measures.”

“Save your speeches, little brother,” Garrett grits through clenched teeth. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?"

"He just saved your life!"

"I know, but..." Carver sighed. "Maker, Garrett, he’s an abomination—“

Garrett whips his head up and glares at Carver, his expression hot, wild. He releases the door handle as if it were hot iron and brings his head in close. There is no smile in Garrett’s eyes now. “How can you say that? After everything he’s done for you, for this family?”

“Nearly getting you killed every other week, tangling with Templars and stone golems, oh yes, he’s been a right godsend,” snarls Carver.

Garrett jabs him in the shoulder with a finger. “The problem with you, little brother, is that you just don’t know when to be grateful.” 

“Dammit, I’m trying to look out for you here. Maker knows you won’t do it yourself.” Even though Garrett is close enough to pick out the grey hairs in his beard, Carver refuses to be intimidated, to give up, to give in. “Anders will be the death of you. He won’t be satisfied until he ruins you both.”

“Maybe I don’t care,” Garrett snaps.

At that, Carver feels the fight flood out of him. His shoulders and arms deflate. His hand slides from the door to hang at his side, limp, useless.

“Well,” he says, once he recovers his breath, “then I suppose neither do I.”

For a moment, Garrett staggers on his feet slightly, as if he’s drunk, or been punched. Then he yanks open the cellar door.

“Good chat,” he mutters as he disappears up the stairwell.


	106. Restoration XI: Sounding the Alarm

Carver jolts awake.

Somewhere close by an alarm clangs, over and over. Three blasts, then a pause. The signal for all-hands. He’s only heard it once before – though back then, it was hard to pick out over the jeers of approaching darkspawn.

Blinking away sleep, Carver lurches to his feet. The hall outside the open barracks door is a flurry of activity: knights donning armor, strapping on weapons, sprinting down the halls. Squealing metal. A cacophony of voices. Disorder, disarray.

Briefly, vividly, Carver wishes he was back in the hole. At least there was peace. Of a sort.

Across the room, Paxley, pale and tight-lipped, is already mostly dressed. “Wondered when you’d wake,” he snorts.

“Had a rough night.” Carver rolls out his stiff shoulder, taking care not to pull the bandage. “What’s happening?”

“Beats me.” Paxley’s hand shakes almost imperceptibly as he tightens a strap on his rerebrace. “Something big. Meredith don’t give the all-hands for nothing.”

“Hmm.” Carver glances at the trunk by his bed, where his armor and sunshield have been boxed up like so many Feastday decorations. “Should I…?”

Paxley shakes his head. “Best to let us handle it,” he mutters without any real conviction. Then he grabs his sword and dashes into the hall, the door closing behind him with a dull thud.

Carver stares blankly at the closed door. He knows Paxley’s right, that as a soldier stripped of rank he wouldn’t be welcome on a battlefield. He doesn’t even own a decent sword anymore; at the sentencing they took his Chantry-issue claymore, leaving him only the chipped pigsticker he brought with him to Kirkwall. Carver should just go back to sleep and let others take care of whatever emergency’s got half the Gallows sprinting outside his barracks just before dawn.

But that’s not the kind of man he is. Carver’s not sure of much anymore, but he’s sure of that.

Besides, he never did care much for being left behind.

Carver shrugs on a tunic and trousers – his boots, of course, are already on his feet – and staggers after Paxley.

Outside the hall brims with Templars of all ranks, pushing and shoving, flocking like panicked starlings. Carver’s first instinct is to shrink back, to retreat into the quiet hollow of the barracks. Instead he grits his teeth and, summoning what little courage he has left, pushes into the surge. Under his breath he allows himself to count each step he takes—left foot, right foot, left, right – a small consolation amidst the chaos.

“Repeat: Privates, to the dormitories,” an officer Carver cannot see shouts over the alarm. “Officers, to the docks. Repeat: Privates, to the dormitories. Officers—“

Carver ducks behind a pair of helmeted Knight-Lieutenants. No sense in him going to the dormitories. Standard Gallows protocol dictates that in emergencies, lower rank knights should concentrate on confining mages to their quarters, and if Carver’s being honest with himself, he’s not yet ready to be on the other side of a cell door.

 _Not that you ever were,_ Bethany whispers.

He can’t argue with that.

Nobody stops Carver on the long march down to the docks. Few even look his way. The officers are far too focused on the task ahead, whatever it is, and on calming their jangled nerves to pay an out-of-dress man much heed. For perhaps the first time in his life, Carver thanks the Maker for his own irrelevance.

Down by the harbor, nearly a hundred officers mill about, crowding together like ants over a carcass. Several pontoons bob against the pier, waiting to ferry them all to the city proper.

Across the harbor Carver can just make out a dull rosy glow, like the earliest rays of dawn but in the wrong direction. It seems to be coming from somewhere near Lowtown.

His mouth goes dry. He has a bad feeling about this.

In the middle of the crowd, Knight-Captain Cullen clambers atop a makeshift podium of crates and barrels. He mutters something irritably to one of his lieutenants, while his other subordinates scurry about, futilely attempting to organize the officers into neat lines by each pontoon.

Cullen’s gaze sweeps over the chaos. Carver thinks the man’s eyes linger on him ever-so-briefly, but if he sees Carver, he gives no indication. His face is cold, carven, just like one of the Gallows statues.

Idly Carver wonders why Meredith isn’t the one down here leading this effort – but perhaps, he concludes with no small bitterness, the Knight-Commander has more important things to do these days than actually taking command of her troops.

Raising a gauntleted hand, Cullen clears his throat. “Your attention please.”

Silence falls in the crowd, the only sound the tide lapping at the boats.

“I bear grave news. We’ve received word from the City Guard that during second watch—“

Something rotten unspools in Carver’s gut. He’s got a _very_ bad feeling about this.

Cullen pinches his nose and visibly swallows before continuing, “—that terrorists set off a bomb in the alienage.”

Carver’s heart stops. 


	107. Restoration XII: Running

A roar of disbelief surges through the crowd. Carver wants to tell everyone to be quiet, but he can’t move, he can’t speak, because the alienage _—_ because _Merrill_ —

Suddenly he is eighteen again: bruised, bloodied, chased by the screams of the darkspawn and the dying. Smoke in his throat, his lungs on fire, he’s running as fast as his legs will carry him, a childhood of midnight escapes and accomplice apostasy training him for this moment and this moment alone. At his back the Tower of Ishal still smolders, but hope is lost; his company is dead, and hope is lost; and now all that remains, all there ever was, is the running. Fall back to Lothering. Save his family. _Flee you dogs, flee with your lives while you still can_ —

Carver has to get to the alienage. He has to get to Merrill.

Nothing else matters.

“—detonated by a separatist cell known as the Mythallen,” Cullen is saying, though Carver finds the words difficult to hear over his pounding heart and the blood rushing in his ears. “The gas is highly toxic. Upon inhalation it causes aggression, seizures and hallucinations. Wear your helmets at all times. Possible blood magic is also suspected—“

Carver eyes the boats. They’re headed to the alienage, but the officers will never let him on, not without armor or rank. And he can’t steal one; they’re far too large to steer singlehanded. He grits his teeth. Maybe he can swim across? No, he can’t swim, never learned how. Maybe he can grab a barrel instead and dog paddle across. No, he can’t get to them, not with Cullen on them like a Viscount before court. Besides, paddling would take too long. Everything would take too long.

Where’s a dragon when you really need one?

Behind his eyelids, Carver sees the golem of body parts in the hidden chamber; the scrabbling fingers against his chest; elven bodies, dozens and dozens of them, lying haphazard in every direction, each with Merrill’s face—

Carver draws a shaky breath and barely conquers the urge to scream.

“—first responders on the scene eliminated the culprit, but her lieutenants have fled into the alienage. The Mythallen and their sympathizers are to be considered armed and highly dangerous. First priority is to apprehend as many as possible. Interrogate as needed. All necessary force authorized –“

Maybe he can use the old smuggler’s tunnel. Sure, it goes to Darktown, not the alienage, but the elven district isn’t far from there. Just a few miles, and a couple staircases. He can run. He’s good at running. Always has been. Just another Hawke taking flight.

It’s his only chance.

Carver staggers from the crowd, shoving past confused officers, and sprints back into the Gallows. If anybody notices, they do not care enough to stop him. He is without armor, after all. They probably think he’s just a trash boy in the wrong place at the wrong time. They’re not wrong.

He runs and runs, through the courtyards and down winding corridors, toward the small storage room where the tunnel entrance lies. After Alrik’s death Cullen had begun posting sentries outside the door, but no one is there tonight; the night guard must have responded to the alarm too.

Thanking the Maker for his luck, Carver kicks open the ancient wooden door, in the process splintering a brand-new latch from its hinges. Paying it no need, he dashes to the trapdoor—

Only to find it has been replaced by an iron grate.

With a loud curse Carver falls to his knees and tugs on the grate until he sees stars. But it won’t budge. He kicks it, punches it, rams into it with his shoulder, even mutters a quick Smite. Nothing.

 _You’ll never get there in time,_ says Bethany gently.

“Shut up,” Carver mutters.

_She’s probably already dead._

He tugs at his hair, fists balling into tight knots. “You’re not helping.”

_Templars, terrorists, what does it matter? Everyone you love dies in the end._

“Stop it,” he moans, even though he knows she’s right. She’s always right. He rocks back and forth on his heels. “I know there’s a way. There has to be a way.”

_You weren’t quick enough at Ostagar, either. Eventually the horde still claimed me.  
_

He remembers the pound of ogre feet, sour jeers and clanging steel, a sharp, piercing scream—

“Ostagar,” he whimpers. “Wait—That’s it. Ostagar!”

Carver leaps to his feet and sprints back through now mostly empty halls. Once back in his barrack, he throws open the lid of his trunk of personal possessions. Digging through pauldrons and letters, he pushes aside the sunshield he was once so proud to bear until he finds what he’s looking for: The broadsword he was issued at Ostagar.

It’s a pitiful thing now. Half the shaft broke off blocking an errant hurlock axe in the initial surge – not that the steel, pockmarked and dented, was any of particular quality to begin with. The cross guard wobbles, the pommel’s chipped, and there’s a sticky bit of darkspawn goo that’s never quite come off, no matter how much he scrubbed at it. The weapon is broken beyond repair.

How fitting for a man like him.

He takes it, the hilt fitting awkwardly in his too large hand. But Carver doesn’t stop to think or adjust his grip. He just races back to the storage room, kicks open the door, raises his arm, and with one strong, swift motion, bashes the grate’s welded edge. Metal squeals and comes apart.

The grate slides away easily after that.

“I’m coming, Merrill,” he promises, and leaps into the tunnel.


	108. Restoration XIII: The Saar-Qamek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case you’ve forgotten: Sylaise is meant to be the elven woman you encounter in the final stage of the “Blackpowder Courtesy” quest. 
> 
> In this story, she first shows up in the Dissension arc: http://archiveofourown.org/works/283891/chapters/466656
> 
> She also makes an appearance in the Merrill Alphabet series: http://archiveofourown.org/works/346737/chapters/563335

Carver pounds on her door.

“Merrill,” he calls out as loud as he dares. “It’s me. Open up. We have to get out of here.”

He casts a furtive glance at the alleyway behind him. So far the Templars have left this street alone, but that won’t last, not while the poison mist keeps spreading. From the shadows he’d spied officers already cordoning off sections of the alienage, some as large as the Hightown market. It won’t be long now before they drop the portcullis and block the district off altogether. And when that happens, Carver intends for he and Merrill not to be on the wrong side.

“Merrill!” Still nothing. His fists fall uselessly from her door. In his ears panic begins to thrum. “Come on. Open the door.”

From up the alley he hears the telltale clink of approaching sabatons. Promising himself he’ll buy her a new set of hinges as soon as the Order reinstates his pay – whenever that is – Carver braces his shoulder and rams into the door.

Wood splinters and gives way. Inside, the small hovel is dark, quiet.

No, she must be in here. She must be. Because the only alternative is that she’s out _there,_ in the deadly gas, and Carver isn’t yet ready to accept that he’s once again arrived too late.

Screwing his courage, he inches further into the shack, doing his best to ignore the oppressive weight of the dark closing in around him, but to little avail. He inhales, exhales. He counts heartbeats. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. But the numbers don’t help. They only make him feel like he’s forgotten something important.

That’s when Carver notices a strange pale glow coming from the bedroom.

“Merrill? Is that you?” His suddenly buoyant heart leaps into his throat. “We have to get out of here. Someone set off a bomb and—“

But nobody is in the bedroom. The soft light he’d noticed instead originates from a tall looking glass, much taller than he, with a wrought metal frame of intertwined snakes. This must be Merrill’s mirror, Carver realizes, the one for which she needed the tool that Garrett had refused to supply. It’s very pretty, in an old-fashioned way.

Of course, now that he’s looking at it, he can see there’s no light coming from it at all, just the illusion of light: a glint of silver in the darkness, only vaguely brighter than its surroundings. A little spooky, perhaps, but he’s glad for its presence all the same.

“You,” says a tight voice behind him.

He whirls about-face, and there she is. Finally. Carver could sob in relief.

“Merrill!” Letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, he reaches out for her. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. Come on, we have to get out of—“

Without looking at him, Merrill jerks away from his touch.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she bares her teeth, “ _Templar_.”

Carver flinches. She hasn’t called him that in years. And her lilt is gone, replaced by something as sharp and hard as a knife-edge.

Merrill snaps her fingers, and pale spirit fire spiders up her hand and wrist. In the low lavender gleam Carver can easily see her hunched shoulders, her limp arms, the lank hair drooping into her eyes. Icy fear curdles in his belly.

“You don’t understand. Someone has set off a gas bomb.” He takes another step toward her, but again she shrinks back, a grim burlesque of a courtly dance. “It’s poison. It’s making everyone go crazy and attack each other. We have to get out of here.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” she hisses. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re _really_ planning?”

Confused, Carver lifts his hands in what he hopes is a placating gesture. “I don’t know what you’re talking—“

His words die in his throat as she finally lifts her gaze to his. Her eyes burn like dragon fire.

“You want to smash my mirror.” She is strained, coiled, a snake ready to strike. “You want to lock me up. You want to take from me everything I have left.”

“What?” Carver’s heart hammers against his chest like the drums of an approaching army. “I’d never do that!”

“Shut up!” she commands, her voice as full as thunderclap. The fire on her hands pulses threateningly, and Carver takes a step back. “I see through your lies, Templar. I know you.” Her eyes dart around the room, searching for something that isn’t there. “And I know that all you humans ever do is take. You take the arulin’holm. You take our empire. You take our magic, our history, our people. You take, and take, and take.”

Carver swallows hard. “Merrill—“

But it’s like she doesn’t even see him anymore. “But it’s never enough, is it? Never enough for you greedy little things,” she continues. She’s visibly trembling now, her face twitching with barely-contained fury. “I’m not like Sylaise. I never wanted revolution. I just wanted to restore a little piece of our history. And now—“ her hands curl into fists, fire racing to her shoulders, “—now you want to take that too.”

“Stop it,” he begs. “You’re scaring me.”

“Good,” she snarls and, in a blaze of spirit fire, lunges for his neck.


	109. Restoration XIV: A Well-Timed Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be safe, I’m adding to this update a trigger warning for emetophobia.

They collide, and Merrill’s spirit fire extinguishes. For a long moment they grapple in the dark, limbs tangled, nails and knees and teeth. Carver falls, smashing heavily into the mattress, then to the floor. She leaps on top of him. Fingers scratch at his skin, yank at his hair. Sharp nails find purchase in his wounded shoulder. He howls in pain. She laughs, a hollow thing that rattles about in the yawning dark.

She’s not using her magic on him, though. That’s something.

He struggles to roll her over, to no avail. She’s a slight thing but heavy when she wants to be, and now she grinds into him, bracing her elbows against his solar plexus, heels wrapped around his middle. It occurs to him that in any other time or context this arrangement would have him praising the Maker, but right now it proves only that the absent god answers men’s prayers in the worst of ways.

Delicate fingers lace around his neck and curl into the yielding flesh.

“Merrill—“ he gasps, fighting to breathe. “Please.”

“I will tear out your throat, Templar,” she promises. Her face catches a bit of the mirror’s half-light. Her eyes are crazed; a bit of drool trickles down her chin. Carver suddenly remembers Chateau Haine, how she thrashed and shook under the effects of the wyvern poison. But he’s the one shaking now. “I will chew on your flesh and lick up your blood.”

He doesn’t want to do it, but he has no choice: He mouths out a Smite.

Merrill collapses, unconscious, against his chest. Somehow, though, she now weighs even more; Carver feels like he’s being pressed down, down, deep into the solid earth.

“That went well,” he mutters and lets his head fall back to the floor.

***

A minute later, she wakes up and vomits on his chest.

And she doesn’t stop vomiting, not even fifteen minutes later; Merrill barely has time to breathe before each wave hits. She heaves and heaves into the privy until there is nothing left in her, not even bile. Yet the attacks continue, growing steadily more violent, until she’s at last convulsing in his arms, openly sobbing, blood trickling down her cheek.

“You’ve got to drink something,” says Carver, wiping her jaw with his sleeve.

“I—“ Making a sour face, she shakes her head and lurches vaguely toward the privy.

“It’s okay,” he says, rubbing between her shoulder blades as she coughs out nothingness. “Everything is going to be okay.”

“Don’t lie,” she whimpers. “I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.” He prays that Merrill can’t hear the uncertainty in his tone.

Out in the main room, the front door crashes inward, and several pairs of boots tromp into the hall. “Merrill?” a woman’s voice calls out. “Are you in here?”

 _Aveline._ Carver has never been so happy to hear that red-headed despot’s voice in all his life.

“We’re in here,” he calls back.

“No,” whispers Merrill. “They can’t—I don’t—“ But whatever protest she’d been about to mount is interrupted by another fit of gagging.

Several familiar faces, drawn with concern, appear in the doorway: Aveline, Isabela, and—

Of _course._

“What are you doing here?” Carver says, as Garrett launches himself at Merrill in a flurry of fine silken robes.

“Not now,” Garrett barks. If he’s surprised to see his brother here, he doesn’t show it. Instead he gracelessly shoves Carver out of the way and picks Merrill up in his arms, holding her as if she were some Orlesian countess who’d fainted at one of his parties. “Can’t you see she’s ingested the poison?”

Carver rises to his feet, stomping the feeling back into them after crouching for so long. “I hadn’t noticed,” he says dryly.

Aveline shoots them both an irritated glance as Isabela brushes hair back from Merrill’s forehead.

“We’ve got to get her to Anders,” she says, voice wavering. Carver’s never heard Isabela sound quite so lost before, and it does little to settle his rattled nerves. As Merrill weakly coughs, Isabela unties her bandana and uses it to gently wipe away a smear of blood from Merrill’s jaw. “He’ll know what to do, kitten,” she murmurs. “He’ll fix you right up, just you wait.”

“I should stay here with the Guard,” says Aveline. “But talk to Maecon. He can provide an escort for so you won’t be bothered again.”

“Thanks,” says Garrett. The group turns to leave without another word.

“Hey,” says Carver. But none of them stop. “Hey—wait!”

He follows them into the hall, where Fenris stands at attention, sword drawn, gaze trained on the alleyway outside the door. He offers Carver the sparest of nods before turning back toward the door, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Then he and Aveline both file out into the alienage courtyard, with Garrett close on their heels.

“Garrett,” Carver shouts, “Stop before I Smite you.”

Half-out of the doorway, his brother slowly turns back to him. Garrett’s eyes burn with fury. Around his mouth and eyes the laugh lines harden, like grooves cut into marble.

“What is it?” he says, enunciating every syllable.

“You’re not taking her anywhere without me.”

Garrett rolls his eyes. “I don’t have time for this. _She_ doesn’t have time for this.”

As if on cue, Merrill again dry heaves, writhing in Garrett’s hands like a frightened snake. Carver dashes toward her, but Garrett blocks the advance with his body.

“You’re holding her wrong,” Carver protests. “You’ve got to keep her head higher, above her belly.”

But Garrett does not adjust his grip. “Thanks, little brother. But I think we can take it from here.”

“Like flames you will.” Carver reaches for her, but again Garrett dances out of reach.

“If you really cared about her,” he says coldly, “you would have gotten her out of here before she got sick.”

Blood rushes to Carver’s ears. ”I got here as fast as I could!” he snarls. “And what about you? If you cared so much, then where the blazes were you?”

“We could have gotten here sooner if your fellows hadn’t insisted on frisking us every five steps.” Garrett’s eyes narrow dangerously, and he looks how Father used to when he was cross. “Now run along back to your regiment. Surely you have other maleficars to harass in the name of anti-terrorism.”

Frowning, Carver’s about to ask what he means by that when Isabela interjects with a loud, animalistic noise of frustration.

“Not now, you two,” she snaps. Snatching Merrill from Garrett’s grip before he can protest, Isabela slings the girl over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Then she walks out the door, rubbing Merrill’s back as she walks.

”Hold on, kitten,” she says softly, sparing no glances for the men behind her. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”


	110. Restoration XV: Secrets and Healing

To Carver’s great irritation, Isabela hands Merrill off to neither him nor his brother, instead hefting her roughly over one shoulder the entire trek down to Darktown.

To his even greater irritation, once there both Garrett and Isabela head not for the clinic, but for the Amell cellar door.

“What are you doing?” Carver cries, near a state of panic. “The clinic is the other way!”

“Keep your voice down,” Garrett hisses. For a moment he fumbles with an ancient skeleton key; then the door groans and gives way. “Do you want to bring half the Carta down on our heads?”

Isabela quirks an eyebrow at Garrett. “I thought you told him already,” she says.

“Stay out of this,” he snaps back.

Isabela shrugs – not an easy task to accomplish, burdened as she is – and shuffles through the open portal. Carver makes to follow her, but Garrett stops him before he can.

“Let me pass,” huffs Carver. He again attempts to circumvent his brother, but to no avail. “This is no time for games.”

“Let me make this very clear.” Garrett’s voice is grave, cold as the set of his mouth and his unyielding glare. “Should any of what you see here get back to your fellow tin-cans, I will storm the Gallows and wring your neck myself.”

Carver’s brow knits together. “What are you talking about?”

“Just promise me your silence, brother.” The low sewer light casts deep shadows under Garrett’s eyes. “Promise me on Bethany’s grave.”

“I-I promise,” stutters Carver, though his heart sinks to do so. Ever since they were kids, Garrett only ever extracted promises from his brother out of the deepest desperation, as if the mere act of trusting Carver at his word was an action so potentially fatal it could somehow rend the Veil asunder. So whatever this is about, Carver knows it can’t be good.

Garrett lets out a long sigh, the kind that seems not so much to release tension but to add to it, and steps away from the door.

When last Carver had seen the cellar of the Amell estate, it had been a dank, dusty warren of broken ornaments and skunked wine casks: a fitting home for Tevinter slavers. In the years since, however, Garrett has evidently cleared away the debris—and the bodies—only to replace them with something far more incredible.

In the shade of the cellar has mushroomed a dizzying array of magical implements: work benches, parchments, dog-eared spellbooks, half-melted candles, measuring scales, cracked staves, jars of all shapes and sizes, empty flasks, crystals, potted herbs, dried animal carcasses, chests scrawled in Tevinter hand, and countless other curios too exotic for Carver to even name.

His mouth falls open. “What _is_ all this?”

“None of your concern,” Garrett replies.

“But it’s like a bloody Circle in here.” Carver spins around, only to find that, indeed, every inch of the cellar has been covered in magical accoutrements, more than he ever thought possible to collect in a single lifetime. “It’s incredible.”

Garrett peers closely at his brother, perhaps seeking some hint of anger or rebuke. Finding none, he offers tentatively, “Every wizard must have his lair.”

“Andraste’s asscheeks,” whispers Carver, still too astonished by what he’s seeing to consider what he’s saying. “I wish Bethany could have seen all this.”

For a long moment, Garrett is silent. “And Father.”

Carver can do nothing but nod.

“Come on,” says Garrett, scurrying up the staircase after where Isabela had disappeared. “Anders is upstairs.”

Swallowing hard, Carver follows him – but not before he notices a small writing desk, covered in papers and tucked away into one of the corners, with what appears to be a map of Kirkwall hanging above it. Small pins are pushed into the map at various locations: the east-side dock, some side alleys in Darktown, the Amell estate, the Gallows. And someone has drawn a thick line that traces out where the smuggler’s tunnel lies.

Carver frowns, then goes after his brother.

***

For all his many faults—which number beyond counting, thinks Carver—Anders truly is a skilled healer, the likes of which Carver hasn’t seen since his father was alive. Within seconds he has concocted an anti-emetic to quell the worst of Merrill’s nausea, and by the end of the hour he has leeched the last of the deadly poison from her body. Carver has never gotten along with his brother’s beau, but he swears now that he’ll make the effort, at least for a little while.

When Merrill finally falls asleep, Carver breathes a sigh of relief so loud that Dog, who had been napping at the foot of the guest bed, shoots him a pointedly annoyed look. So Carver exits the guest room, leaving his brother with Anders and Isabela.

Whether it was watching Anders work or discovering Garrett’s downstairs collection, Carver isn’t sure, but something about tonight has given him a terrible bout of homesickness, and he’s halfway down the hall to Mother’s room before he remembers the late hour and turns back.

Exhausted, miserable, he instead sits on the top stair and lets his head sag against the banister. Closing his eyes, Carver tries, just for a moment, to remember what the old farmhouse in Lothering looked like; the sweet smell of ripe summertime peaches; the groan of windmill sails creaking in the breeze.

“She’ll be alright,” comes a soft voice nearby.

Carver opens his eyes. Isabela sits right next to him, leaning her shoulder ever-so-slightly against his. So lost in his memories was he that he hadn’t even noticed. And for the first time in months, he doesn’t even want to shrink back from the touch.

“I know,” he says eventually.

“Anders is good at what he does,” she adds.

“I know. I just wish—“ He sighs. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

Isabela says nothing, instead fiddling with her fingers, tugging each one in turn as if testing the strength of rigging.

“Thanks, Carver,” she says at last, the words like some secret she’d been sworn to keep. “Thanks for getting to her in time.”

“Thanks for carrying her all the way here,” he says with a mirthless smirk.

Briefly, the shadow of a smile plays on her lips too. Then she pats her shoulder invitingly. “I’m much more comfortable than a banister,” she offers.

Carver regards her shoulder curiously, then, surprising even himself, he rests his head gently on it, letting her warmth and scent wash over him like a tide. She smells a little like Mother. Suddenly he wants very much to cry.

“You’re a good Templar,” she whispers. “I just wanted you to know that I knew that. And that she does too.”

His throat feels thick, raw. “And you’re a good friend, Isabela. I’m glad you’re there to watch out for her.”

He can feel her blink several times in rapid succession. Then she presses a soft kiss to his temple and leans her head against his, and together they wait for Merrill to wake.


	111. Restoration XVI: Forgiveness

Some time later, the sun rises. Garrett emerges from the guest bedroom, making enough noise to rouse Carver from the gentle doze into which he’d fallen. Garrett’s mien is drawn and grave, but when he sees Carver and Isabela huddled together on the stair, he hesitates for the briefest of moments, and something in his face relaxes, uncoils. As he approaches, Carver thinks his brother looks younger than he has in years.

“She’s awake,” he says.

Carver nudges Isabela, who groggily rises to her feet and staggers toward the bedroom. Garrett looks at his brother expectantly, but Carver makes no move to rise. “I’ll give them a moment,” he offers as explanation.

Garrett nods, but does not sit down.

“I’m glad she’s alright,” he says eventually, his voice too small to fill the space between them.

“Me too,” answers Carver, looking out the massive picture window.

Garrett clears his throat.

“Carver,” he begins, and Carver hates that his brother’s voice has begun to sound so much like Father’s. Or maybe it doesn’t, but he can’t remember the difference, and he hates that too. “Carver, I—“

“You don’t have to say anything.” Carver watches through the window as the Arenburgs’ gardener, a wizened elf with a pinched face and no tattoos, begins his daily chore of watering the gardenias. “You don’t have to say anything at all.”

“Fine,” Garrett concedes. “Then I won’t.”

Carver senses the heaviness of his brother’s eyes upon him, the watcher being watched, but he doesn’t turn to meet them. Nor does Garrett come any nearer, or move farther away. The two men hold their ground, just out of the other’s reach.

Eventually Isabela walks out of the guest room, her arm snaking around Anders, who leans on her heavily. Garrett hurries to meet them and relieve Isabela of her burden.

“She wants to see you,” Isabela says to Carver.

He nods and stands. With a deep breath, he makes his way to the guest room.

Merrill sits in the exact center of the bed, no less than a dozen pillows propping her upright. She looks small and fragile, like the broken dolls Carver and his brother used to find secreted away in the various crates and barrels of Darktown. The bed, with its canopies and plush sheets, seems about to swallow her whole.

“There you are," he says gently, as if she’d be anywhere else. “How are you feeling?”

After a moment’s regard, she sharply turns her head away from him and stares into the fireplace. “Your shoulder is bleeding,” she says.

Startled, Carver looks down at his shoulder, where indeed a dark red stain has bloomed and dried on the linen. Remembering the feel of her fingers digging into his wound—and the sound of her laughter—he winces.

“So it has. I hadn’t noticed.”

“Hmm,” is her only response.

“Well. Would you look at us?” Carver huffs in the vague approximation of a laugh. “Anders ought to give us a frequent customer discount.”

Merrill doesn’t laugh. “He doesn’t charge.”

“It was a joke.”

Her fists curl in the blankets. “I know.”

Carver takes a step closer. “May I—?” he says, gesturing toward the bed.

Merrill nods, and he sits down, perching on the edge. He’s close enough to take her hand, but doesn’t. He wonders if she even wants him to.

“What were you doing out in the middle of the night?” he asks.

“I went out to find the mage. The Starkhaven one. I thought maybe if I went out at night, I could catch him by surprise.” She takes a deep breath. “But there was all this funny-smelling mist. I tried not to breathe it in, but… how could I not? It was everywhere.” Merrill frowns. “It tasted so odd, like blackberries gone rotten. Then—then I got angry.”

“I know. I was there for that part,” he says, offering a small smile.

At his words, she crumples, burying her face in her hands. “I said such horrible things. I-I wanted to kill you, Carver.”

“I don’t think you did.” Again he wonders if he should touch her, if he should pull her into a comforting embrace, if that’s something he even has the capacity to offer her anymore. “If you had, you would have used magic on me. But you used your nails instead. Though stacked side by side,” he rubs the new bruises chaining around his neck, “I don’t know which is the deadlier.”

“I’m so sorry,” she moans into her palms. “How can you ever forgive me?”

“What’s there to forgive? You weren’t yourself.”

“Yes I was.” She drops her hands suddenly, the impact pillowing the plush comforter like mountains. “I _was_ myself. Don’t you see? I was more myself than I’ve ever been. All the anger, all the frustration, everything. It just bubbled over in me like a shaken up champagne bottle. Letting it out felt so… so—“ She swallows hard, throat bobbing. “It felt so _good._ ”

Vividly Carver recalls how Alrik writhed beneath his blows, the sickening crunch of his knuckles on the man’s nose and skull, and he flexes his hand to shake out the sensation. Oh yes. He knows exactly how good letting go can feel.

“I just wanted to hurt everyone around me, even you. Especially you. Ohh,” she wails. “No wonder Garrett doesn’t trust me. No wonder my clan hates me. I’m rotten, Carver. I’m rotten to my core.”

“Merrill, you’re not rotten.” He fumbles around for something further to console her with and comes up with nothing.

“Broken, then. Like my mirror. And neither of us can be fixed, not ever.”

He wants to tell her no, of course that’s not true, he knows that’s not true—but he’s been there, and he knows she won’t listen, and besides, he doesn’t want to inadvertently lie to her, so instead he leans over the ridiculous comforter and, damn his fear, takes her limp hand in his.

“I wonder—“ He trails off, and tries to think of what his mother would say. “I wonder if there’s any among us who isn’t at least a little broken. But we keep moving anyway. It’s what makes us human—or elf—or whatever. It means you know how to survive.”

Finally she looks at him, and there’s something unreadable in her eyes, something that he can’t stand to look at for very long, so he turns his gaze to their joined hands. She has laced her fingers with his.

“But I’m so angry all the time,” she whispers.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I am too. And so is Garrett, even if he won’t show it. It’s okay to be angry. Some things are worth being angry about.”

And for the first time in a very long time, Carver actually believes it.

Merrill squeezes his hand, and he squeezes right back.


	112. Restoration XVII: Sandwiches

Early morning sunlight slants through the kitchen windows and spills over Carver’s tea cup. The tea has long since gone cold, but Carver can’t quite bring himself to pour out the liquid, or even remove his hands from the mug. After the night he’s had, it’s nice to have something solid to hold onto.

Merrill long ago fell back to sleep, and not shortly thereafter so did everyone else: Isabela sauntered back to the Hanged Man; Garrett and Anders retired to their shared bedchamber. Even Dog is curled up by the fireside once more. Carver is the last one awake, like some Deep Roads golem standing eternal vigil.

He should be getting back to the Gallows soon. Not that he expects he’s been much missed, but now that the immediate danger has passed, he ought to set about finding some way to make himself useful. Perhaps the quarantined alienage will need its trash boy this morning, after all.

A noise startles Carver out of his reverie. It is Mother, who stumbles against a cabinet and curses viciously under her breath. Despite the early hour, she wears a fine silk gown, its bright hue accentuated by several strands of sparkling jewels. Her grey hair is perched atop her head at a festive yet dangerous angle; several fat locks curl around her neck, as if at any moment the whole business might topple free from its purchase. In her hands is a feathered party mask.

“Carver!” she squawks, flushed and slightly out of breath. “I didn’t know you had leave tonight—err—this morning.”

“I didn’t.” He frowns, confused. “Why weren’t you upstairs, asleep?”

Of all the many responses Mother could have offered, a sheepish grin is the last that Carver expects.

“I was out,” she says simply.

“Out?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, _out._ ” She tucks a few of the thicker strands back into her coif, only for them to immediately fall free again. “As in, away from the manor.”

Carver squints. “But where?”

“What are you, my father?” Her tone is so rebellious he would’ve expected to hear it from Merrill, or even himself, certainly not his nearly fifty-year old mother. “I don’t have to give you an accounting of all my comings and goings.”

“Wait a moment. Did you—“ he says slowly, a smile creeping onto his lips, “—did you _sneak_ out?”

“I might have,” she replies loftily, before bending toward him with a wicked grin of her own. “But don’t tell your brother. He has such a delicate constitution these days; I wouldn’t want him to be scandalized that his mother’s social life is more exciting than his.”

Carver snorts. Mother always knows how to make him smile. “I’ll keep your secret safe.”

Satisfied, she attempts to slide into the stool next to him. It’s no easy task, and Carver reaches out a hand to steady her as she wobbles. He hasn’t seen Mother this inebriated since the old Lothering assemblies, when she used to get silly off punch and dance the Remigold with the goatherds just to get a rise out of Father. Long-forgotten warmth blooms deep in Carver’s chest.

Mother leans her elbows on the counter, as primly as if she were holding court, and it’s all Carver can do not to laugh. “So what _are_ you doing here?” she asks.

He sighs. “It’s a long story. You’ll hear it soon enough from Garrett, I’m sure.”

Her eyes sparkle as she regards him. “I’d rather hear it from you.”

“I wouldn’t want to ruin your evening.”

Her smile fades. “When you say things like that,” she leans against him, “you must know I’ll only worry until you tell me.”

He chews on his lip a moment, considering. But he could never resist telling Mother whatever was on his mind, for she was the only one who ever seemed to want to know. “Fine,” he says. “But first, you look hungry. Let me make us some sandwiches.”

“No, I’ll ring for Orana. She can handle it.” Mother lurches to her feet.

Rolling his eyes, Carver gently guides his mother back to sitting. “No, I can get it.” He starts to putter about with the bread and cheese and asks, “Who’s Orana?”

“Your brother’s new house elf,” replies Mother with no small distaste.

Carver’s breath stutters in his throat. “A _slave_?”

“No, no, no.” She waves her hands so vigorously Carver thinks she might pitch over, and he once again extends an arm, just in case. “A paid servant. Though I hardly see the difference, with all the bowing and scraping she does. Oh, she makes me _very_ uncomfortable sometimes.”

As he slices the bread, Carver imagines Merrill in an apron and a bonnet, curtsying to his mother and Garrett and to a room full of party guests. Bile rises in his throat. Now he thinks he understands a little more of the tension that has arisen between her and Garrett. The dwarven manservant was one thing, but taking on an elven maid while at the same time preventing Merrill from restoring a lost treasure of her people? What is his brother _thinking?_

“And he says I’m the insensitive one,” he mutters.

Mother clucks at him half-heartedly. “I’m sure there’s a good reason for it. More cheese on mine, please.”

He drapes a few more slices of hard cheddar across her bread. “My brother always has a good reason for what he does. A shame he won’t share it with the rest of us.” He chops the sandwich in two, sliding one half to Mother. “Here.”

“Well, she had a hard life, from what I understand. And you know your brother’s love of hopeless cases. He’s like your Father that way.” She bites into her half. “This is good.”

Carver tries to ignore the familiar sting that, once again, it should be Garrett who is compared to Father and not himself. Instead, he smirks as confidently as he can manage. “It always is when I make it, right?”

Mother grins, a bit of mustard on her lip. “Of course, dear. Now,” she takes another bite, “tell me what’s happened.”

Carver tells her the events of the night, about the alarm and the bomb and Merrill’s poisoning, though he leaves out the part where she’d attacked him. Mother’s eyes drift to his bloodied shoulder anyway, though, to her credit, she doesn’t ask.

“That poor girl,” she says once he’s finished.

“At least Anders was able to heal her in time.” Carver’s gaze drifts down toward his half-eaten sandwich. He takes a big bite, but the bread is suddenly tasteless and dry. He sets it down once more.

“You must be worried sick.”

Carver flushes but doesn’t look up.

“Don’t worry, son.” She lays one hand on top of his, and Carver is struck by how small her fingers seem, how frail and delicate. “I’ll be sure to take good care of her. Make sure she gets all better.”

“Thanks,” he says, covering her hand with his other. “But I think the hard part is all done.”

“Of course it is, darling,” she replies without any conviction. She gives his hand a good, strong squeeze. “Of course it is.”


	113. Restoration XVIII: The Pyre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a little gross in spots. TW for body horror.

At the entrance to the alienage, Carver is met by a stocky guard with dark hair and questionably long sideburns. He looks vaguely familiar somehow, as if Carver had chanced upon him long ago in the pub or the brothel—though judging by the haunted look in his eye, he doesn’t seem the sort to spend much time in either.

“State your busi—“ The man’s face softens. “Carver? Carver Hawke, is that you?”

Carver squints at him. “Yes?”

“Sergeant Hendyr.” He claps Carver firmly on the shoulder, and Carver tries not to flinch from the touch. “You’ve gotten bigger. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Carver racks his brain until suddenly he remembers a shadowed alley, an ambush, and Aveline soaked head-to-toe in gore. It’s hard to recall exact details, though; all the battles from that first year have bled into one. “Donnic, right? Aveline’s man?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it that, exactly.” But the man’s sheepish grin belies his words. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you with the Order now? Your fellows have all left by now.”

Carver frowns. “What do you mean they’ve left?”

“I mean they packed up, headed back to the Gallows.” Donnic’s mouth becomes a thin, grim line. “As soon as the danger had passed, so did they. As usual,” he adds under his breath.

Carver wishes he felt some measure of surprise—or at least not more disappointment. “The Order is about protecting mages, not alienages,” he says, to remind himself as much as the guard before him.

“Mmm,” is all the reply Donnic offers. “So why _are_ you here?”

“Clean-up duty. It’s—a long story.” He hopes Donnic won’t ask for details, though it’d truly be a shock if the man were ignorant of the scandal that landed Carver here in the first place. They’ve probably heard of it in Tevinter by now.

But to his credit, Donnic doesn’t press. Instead, he motions for another guard to take his place. “We won’t turn down hands, that’s for sure,” he says. “Follow me.”

Donnic leads Carver to the entrance of a large courtyard. Before descending the stairs, however, he holds out one gauntleted hand to stop Carver from proceeding further.

“I should warn you,” he says haltingly. “It’s bad in there.”

“I was at Ostagar,” Carver says.

But Donnic looks unconvinced. “Just—be prepared,” he says, eyeing Carver as if he were a skittish mabari that might bolt at any moment. Yet he drops his hand anyway. “Well,” he sighs, trundling down the stairs, “let’s get to it.”

At the sight of the courtyard, Carver’s stomach drops. Thick traces of sick and blood spatter the walls, and corpses litter the cobblestones, their limbs akimbo, faces stretched into raven-pecked rictuses. Looters have already robbed many bodies of their boots and coin purses; some, Carver notes sourly, are even missing body parts.

While the mist is gone, the stink of it remains in the air: a heavy perfume that chokes out all the blood and decay one might otherwise expect. The lingering smell reminds Carver not so much of blackberries, as Merrill had claimed, but of Lothering after a summer storm—or more specifically, of a rain-soaked Bethany, warming her hair and clothes by a late-night fire. It’s the worst smell he could have possibly imagined.

“Maker,” he whispers, fighting down the bile in his throat.

“Hard to imagine, but this is one of the cleaner areas,” says Donnic. “Some of the residents have already been through and picked up their relatives.”

“I-I see,” Carver stutters.

“Come on,” says Donnic. “I’ll help you build a pyre.”

Together they drag several of the smashed crates into a pile and, with a few sparks from Donnic’s tinderbox, set it ablaze. Then, one by one, they carry bodies toward the flames, where Carver stands grim vigil until each corpse takes the fire.

“Poor sots,” mutters Donnic.

To that Carver wants to say something profound but cannot find the words, so instead he watches in silence as the dead appear to writhe and dance in the cleansing flame.

Then, through the flames, Carver notices a man on the far side of the courtyard kneeling by one of the bodies. He appears to be dressed in robes.

Robes with Starkhaven colors.

“You there!” shouts Carver.

The man looks up, startled, and begins to sprint toward the exit. Both Donnic and Carver dash around the pyre.

“Stop!” Carver cries. “Stop, by the order of the Templars!”

The robed man stops abruptly, and Donnic reaches the exit, cutting off the man’s sole line of retreat.

“Identify yourself!”

But the man does not respond.

“I repeat,” commands Carver, wishing he had a sword or armor or anything useful at all. “Identify yourself.”

The robed man again says nothing. Instead he turns to face the pyre. Although he’s at least thirty paces back, Carver can clearly see that this is the same man he and Merrill discovered in the alley a few days prior.

With a cruel smirk, the man wags his hands once, twice, and says something that Carver cannot hear.

By the time Carver realizes what the man is doing, however, it’s too late. The corpses have already begun to swirl off the pyre and into the air, spinning faster and faster around each other, until they melt into one horrible, fleshy mass that, with a stuttering groan, lurches to life.


	114. Restoration XIX: Let Us Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for body horror.

Carver’s heart threatens to burst from his chest as the sizzling, stinking abomination stumbles off the pyre. If he’d considered the creature a horror in the shadows, then he thinks it’s a tragedy in daylight; for now he can plainly see how its many hands grasp at nothing, how its watery eyes openly weep, how the mouths stitched so crudely into its skin actually _move_ : a dozen lips screaming, whispering, maybe even praying.

 _Help us,_ one of them moans. Carver almost recognizes the voice. _Let us go._

Lurching forward, the golem reaches out splintered hands, as if seeking embrace. Carver backs away, frantically scanning the courtyard for something, anything, with which to defend himself. But all he sees are more bodies. Everywhere bodies.

As abruptly as it came to life, however, the golem shudders to a halt. Slowly it turns in place, keening as it wheels around and around like a lost child.

Then it spots the robed man across the courtyard.

A dozen mouths scream. The abomination charges.

With panic in his eyes the man vanishes, using a teleportation trick Carver has seen used on the battlefield many times before. But this does not stop the creature. No, it only serves to enrage it further: The hulking thing speeds its advance, hurtling itself against and through the courtyard’s walls, carving its own exit through brick and mortar as it pursues the missing mage.

Carver motions to Donnic, whose face has gone pale as a sheet. “What the hell was that thing?” the guard asks.

“A nightmare,” he replies. Kneeling, he extracts the heaviest-looking brick from a nearby pile of rubble. It might not be a sword or a sunshield, but at least it’s something.

“Shit always happens on my watch,” Donnic grumbles. “Never on Brennan’s. Only mine.”

Carver shrugs, because what else can he do, and together the two men give chase through the broken walls, the mage forgotten in the press of greater concerns. Like a hurricane the golem has torn through at least five homes—none of which are currently occupied, thank the Maker – but Carver’s stomach sinks as he realizes that its path bears straight for the vhenadahl tree, where the alienage is most thickly populated.

When Carver and Donnic finally catch up to the abomination, it is once again spinning around, wailing, seeking out the robed man.

 _Help us,_ howls the almost-familiar voice. _We beg you. Let us die._

In the shadows something skitters, attracting the golem’s notice. Standing there are two elven children, clutching at each other, eyes bulging ing fright. The abomination rushes forth.

Without thinking, Carver hurls the brick. It connects, heavily, and the golem staggers, giving the children enough time to screech and scatter to safety.

Fingers twitch. Mouths scream. _Let us die. Let us die._

Sobbing openly, the golem now thunders toward Carver. He leaps out of the way just in time, smashing into a rotted crate. Furious, the creature smashes its fists where Carver’s head had been, the impact sending mortar and tiles cascading from the rooftops above.

With a shout, Donnic hefts his sword and stabs the creature in the back. His blade punctures the flesh with a wet sucking sound, the tip poking all the way through the bloated belly.

But the abomination does not bleed. It does not even grunt in pain. Instead, it shakes itself free, the motion wrenching the sword from Donnic’s grip.

The creature circles;I t has them cornered, unarmed. It advances. Raises its fists. Wails.

_Let us die._

From somewhere nearby comes a hot crackling noise. The creature stops. All at once it collapses, like a puppet with cut strings, revealing behind it the form of a battered elf, the raised end of her staff still smoking with spent spirit flame.

“Merrill?” Carver cries. He dashes to her side, catching her before she can topple to the ground. She clutches his arm tightly. “What are _you_ doing here?“

She offers him a wan smile. “Saving your skin, it seems.”

Laughing, he gathers her in his arms and holds her close. “Thank the Maker you did.”

Against his biceps she huffs, but it’s not a displeased sound, and in fact, just as he’s about to let her go her arms find their way around his waist and pull him even closer. With a sigh, Carver leans his chin on her head. He feels dizzy, light-headed, as if at any moment he might float into the sky.

“Andraste’s ass,” Donnic murmurs softly. “She’s a mage…?” His eyes dart between Carver and Merrill and back again. “But you—and the Order—“

Carver glances down at Merrill, and the two share a shrug. He turns to Donnic and raises one finger to his lips. “Ssh.”

“Aveline knows too,” adds Merrill. “And she won’t take kindly to you tattling on me.”

Wiping sweat from his brow, Donnic shakes his head. “I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

Under the prone golem, something starts to wriggle to life. Long filthy fingernails worm their way out from under the fleshy beast. A head emerges. Blind eyes. Broken teeth. In horror, Carver recognizes another of the hideous creatures he and Merrill had fought in the alleyway not three days prior.

But before Carver can regain his senses, Donnic takes action. With an animalistic howl of terror and frustration, the guard kicks the squat creature with a heavy sabaton and crushes it under his heel.

Ichor splatters across the dirt, and the creature stirs no more.

Donnic shakes the goo off his boot and mutters, “I _really_ don’t get paid enough for this shit.”


	115. Restoration XX: Alive

As Donnic stomps off to report the destruction to his fellow guards – “Try not to piss off any more abominations until Brennan’s watch,” he grumbles on his way out – Carver lingers behind to tell Merrill the full story of what had happened.

“It was the mage from before,” he explains. “I spotted him near the bodies. Went after him too, until he sicc’ed his pet golem on us.” His hands balls into a useless fist. “We lost him after that.”

“I just don’t understand,” says Merrill, making a disgusted face. “What could he possibly want with the dead?”

“I don’t know.” Carver frowns, frustrated. “What do scavengers ever want?”

Merrill offers a noncommittal noise and worries at her lip.

“I do know one thing, though,” he continues. “That’s one powerful blood mage. I’ve seen dozens of maleficars, and not one of them could do what he did. With a flick of his wrist, all Fade broke loose.” He frowns. “I wonder maybe he’s the one who’s taken the blood magic books.”

Merrill’s eyes go wide. “The what?”

Carver shakes his head. “Oh, nothing. Just some books missing from the Gallows.”

“Ah—I , I see,” she replies, clearing her throat. “Then I hope we find him soon, before he conjures another of those beasties _,_ ” she quickly adds, with a nod toward the fleshy mass.

“Agreed.”

“But there’s one thing I still don’t understand,” she says, her brow crinkling. “When I saw the— _thing—_ I thought—I thought I heard Sylaise’s voice.”

“The mad elf with the bomb?”

“Yes. I thought she might still be alive,” she says. Sorrow etches deep lines around her mouth. “But I must have imagined it.”

Carver thinks of the golem’s weeping eyes, its screaming mouths, the almost-familiar voice begging for death, and he decides that given the circumstances, it’s probably kinder to keep that information to himself, at least for the time being. “Who knows,” is all he offers as reply.

They fall silent then, staring at the dusty rubble and the fleshy mass and the mess still left to clean. Carver wants to say something to her, feels an acute need to fill the space between them, but for the life of him he can’t figure out the right words.

“Right, well—“ he stutters, just as she says, “Look, I—“

He stops, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “Go ahead.”

“It’s just—I-I wanted to thank you,” she says, not quite looking at him. “For helping me out the other day.”

He chuckles, then winces at the sound. “Now we’re even, I should think.”

Weakly Merrill smiles at him. “That’s not what I meant, though I’m grateful for that too.” Her eyes fall somewhere in the vicinity of his lips, then once more to the ground. “It’s just – I thought about what you said, and, well, it made me feel much better.”

Carver grins, something bright welling deep in his chest. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“You always know how to make me feel better,” she adds.

His smile fades. “I-I’m glad of that too.”

Merrill takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself for a wicked blow.

“I know I told you to stay away from me awhile back. But the truth is,” she pauses, her fingers twisting in her tunic as she still refuses to look at him, “I rather like being near you.”

“I like being near you too,” he replies carefully, barely able to hear himself over the sound of his own pulse thrumming in his ears. “Quite a bit more than I should, actually.”

“Sometimes I think you’re the only person who sees me for me, and not for who they think I am, or who they think I should be. But,” her voice drops to the barest of whispers, “that scares me sometimes too. Do you understand?”

He hesitates, aching with hope and years of want, before nodding.

“I do,” he says eventually. He can’t believe they’re having this conversation here, of all places, in a ruined alienage; and _now,_ mere minutes after he’d almost been pounded into an early grave. But then again, Carver thinks sadly, timing had never been their strong suit. “It’s same for me, really. It’s nice not being seen as my brother’s brother all the time. But,” he swallows nervously, “it’s hard too. What happens if I don’t measure up?”

She glances at him then, her eyes large and liquid and green, so green, like dew-speckled grass or the forests outside Lothering. “I knew you’d get it.”

Heart skipping like a rabbit through underbrush, he lifts one hand to her cheek and brushes it with the back of his knuckles. “We are a lot alike, you and I.”

“Just—promise me.“ Exhaling slowly, she leans into his touch. Suddenly he finds it very hard to breathe. “Don’t go away again. Please.”

“I won’t,” he says. “I promise.”

Her eyes flutter closed. “Good.”

Between them the moment hangs, like so many others before it. So many missed chances. So many things left unsaid. It seems to Carver that his entire life has been spent in pursuit of barely missed things, only recognizable by the shadows that they leave behind. Now, with Merrill’s breath shivering against his palm, he wonders if, for the first time in his life, he’s finally caught up.

“Oh sod it,” he mutters, and tugs her toward him.

His mouth lands firmly on hers. Her lips are dry and cracked and taste a little like blood, but he doesn’t care, because now she’s pressing back against him with an urgency he could have only dreamt about, her mouth opening, warm and wet, the tip of her tongue sliding tentatively against his.

He crushes her closer. Her hands curl behind his neck. She is warm and substantial, and leans against him heavily, as if she might root him to the spot, like a tree spreading its way through the ground, sprouting, inevitable, alive.

Eventually they drift apart. Leaning his forehead against hers, he pants for breath.

“I promise,” he whispers against her smile, and pulls her back for more.

***

Carver doesn’t return to the Gallows until late that evening, after the walls have been rebuilt and Merrill return to her house, sharing with him one last kiss and a secretive smile for farewell. When Carver bounds up the entrance, taking the steps two at a time, grinning like a fool, he is surprised to find Gamlen waiting for him in the atrium.

“Oh—oh my dear boy,” his uncle says, then falls silent.

Carver frowns. Not once has Gamlen ever spoken to him so kindly. “What are you doing here? Aren’t visiting hours over? What’s going on?”

Ashen-faced, Gamlen opens and closes his mouth many times before replying. “Something—awful has happened,” he begins.

And then Carver’s world breaks apart.


	116. Restoration XXI: The Memorial

Garrett, as it turns out, didn’t bring back a body.

“He burned her without us?” shout Carver, drawing the gaze of a few passing recruits. He glares at them, and they scurry out of the visitors’ atrium with a haste that Carver finds oddly gratifying. “Why?”

“He didn’t explain,” replies Gamlen, “only that it was better that way.”

“That overbearing _tit_.” Carver kicks one of the stone walls. Pain, sharp and satisfying, shoots up his foot. “How dare he? She was my mother too.”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me anything.” A muscle pops in Gamlen’s neck. “That boy hoards more secrets than a dragon.”

Groaning, Carver tugs at his hair. He tries as hard as he can to coddle his anger, because it’s so much easier than the alternative, but eventually it too slips through his fingers, and he’s left with the curious feeling of being empty and full at the same time.

“So,” he sighs, “what do we do now?”

Gamlen’s mouth hardens, and for once, he appears as authoritative as his noble birthright might suggest. “Now we hold a memorial. The Chantry won’t begrudge us the privilege, not when Elthina herself christened her.” He begins to pace, his footfalls echoing loudly on the cold flagstones. “I’ll post a notice on the Chanter’s Board about it. It will be well attended, I’m sure: Your mother had no shortage of friends in Hightown, and even those she didn’t know still respect the Amell name enough to attend. We can hold the reception at your brother’s.”

Carver peers at his uncle. “You’ve done this before.”

Sharply Gamlen turns back around. But no sooner has he met Carver’s gaze than the bitterness and anger etched on his features falls away, softening into something older and much more familial. Indeed, in the low light he almost looks like Mother, and suddenly Carver doesn’t know whether he wants to punch Gamlen or embrace him.

“Too many times,” his uncle replies, shoulders sagging. “I’d hoped to have been done with it by now.”

Carver nods. Silence falls between them. For many heartbeats Carver stares at the floor, unable to form a single coherent thought; his head is a cacophony of noises and voices he cannot decipher.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says eventually.

For a long time Gamlen doesn’t answer. Then he settles a hand, awkward and heavy, on Carver’s shoulder.

“It’s a rotten business,” he mutters. “It always is, being left behind.”

***

Mother’s memorial takes place at the Chantry three days later. Gamlen hadn’t lied: For such a somber affair, it’s as well-attended as a Hightown masquerade. Many people Carver doesn’t know give speeches, lauding Mother’s propriety, her beauty, her charity, her sense of humor. Some even compliment her decision to return home after so many years abroad—as if her life in Ferelden, her life as a Hawke, were nothing but a flight of aristocratic fancy.

Carver can’t even find the energy within to be angry about that, for he knows he won’t remember any of what is said here. As each second passes, the words and praise slip away from him, like so much smoke from a brazier.

After a recital from the Chant, Elthina lights a small candle. Its flame dances in an unseen breeze, as if it were alive.

Vividly Carver remembers how Bethany used to practice her magic on candles, scrunching her brow as if personally offended that the damned things wouldn’t light on her command. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift away.

***

Garrett doesn’t come to the memorial.

***

After the ceremony, Carver does not return to the Gallows but instead takes a detour, his shuffling feet unconsciously carrying him toward the alienage.

“I heard the news,” Merrill says, opening the door for him. “ _Ir abelas, ma vhenan.”_

Carver doesn’t reply. Nor he does remember how to speak. He can’t even make himself move out of the doorway.

“I would have come to the memorial, but Isabela says the Chantry isn’t safe.” She takes his hand and gently leads him further into her house. “I said a prayer for her, though. With luck, Falon’Din will find her.”

Again Carver says nothing. Merrill’s house is so small, even smaller than the shack he and his family used to share with Gamlen. Same cobwebs, though. Same musty smell. Mother had spent so much time in that hovel back then, staring into the fireplace, mourning the life she’d lost. What a cruel joke.

“Leandra’s in a better place now,” Merrill adds softly.

Something in him stirs and wakes.

“She should be here.” His too-loud voice echoes dully in the small room. “With her family.”

Merrill bites her lip, looks away. “I’m sorry. I’ve said something wrong again. I’ll just—stop talking.”

Stop talking: Now there’s a good idea, thinks Carver.

Better yet to stop thinking.

So he doesn’t stop to think, because thinking never got him very far. He just kisses her, mouth hot on hers, and now she kisses him back, wet, yielding. Dragging her fingers through his hair, she makes soft little noises in the back of her throat that urge him on, beg him for more. He obliges, surging forward, taking her in his arms, crushing her to him as if he could bring her inside of himself to fill the emptiness within.

His hands slide up her tunic to the supple skin underneath, thumbs tracing unseen sigils up her back, around her ribs, higher, higher—

She pulls away. A rush of cold air fills the space between them.

“I can’t,” she whispers. “Not like this.”

“Please, Merrill.” He leans toward her, aching. “I need you.”

She closes her eyes. Hands sliding to his chest, she pushes him back. “Carver—“

“Make me feel,” he begs. He touches his forehead to hers. “I just want to feel.”

She crumples against him, splaying her hands on his back and tugging him close. He buries his nose in her neck and breathes, breathes the stuff of life and love and everything sweet that’s left in this world.

Then she slides her palm down his arm, takes his limp, massive hand in hers.

“Come with me,” she whispers.

She leads him to her bedroom. Pulls him down on the bed with her. She does not remove her clothing, or his. Instead she brushes the hair back from his forehead and presses her lips to it in a single, warm kiss.

Carver collapses around her, all resistance gone. Limbs tangling in hers, he lays his head on her chest and cries: deep, racking sobs that rend apart his throat and lungs; bitter and loud and awful. He cries until nothing is left in him, cries until he is just a shell of a man, and everything he is and ever was is swept away.

Eventually he stills, but for hours yet he lies with his head on her breast, motionless, listening, the stillness between her heartbeats as silent as the grave.


	117. Restoration XXII: The Forgetting

When Bethany died, there hadn’t been time to burn or bury the body, and Carver never let himself think about what must have happened to her afterward. He dreamed about it sometimes, however: about buzzards and worms; about her being swallowed by dragonfire. About her waking up, scared and alone, just in time for the hurlocks to find her. Those dreams were the worst, by far. He’d wake from them with her name on his lips, staring at Gamlen’s ceiling, the mold-damp wood closing in around him, claustrophobic, like a tomb.

Even back then Carver had seen enough battle to know a body was just a body: that when the light left a man’s eyes his flesh no longer mattered: that without spirit it was only so much meat and bone. But the not knowing ate at him. His baby sister deserved more than uncertainty.

Maybe that’s why, of all the spirits who came to him in the hole, it was hers that spoke the loudest.

***

When Father died, he’d been burned, his ashes scattered, with great care, across the farm he’d sacrificed so much of himself to cultivate. Or so Carver let everyone think. The truth was, when the urn had been uncorked an errant wind had blown, and some of his father had blown back onto him, catching in his hair and eyes, even landing on his tongue.

The taste had never really gone away. For years afterward, after he’d swallowed his last bite of bread or gruel, Carver could close his eyes and swear the ash was still there, bitter and heavy, one last practical joke from a man who lived his life in the crook of a smile.

Carver never said anything, not because he wasn’t sure he’d be believed, but because he couldn’t bear it if anybody else had tasted it too. Some things had to be his and his alone, even grief.

***

Face tight from dried tears, Carver stares up at the mold stains on Merrill’s ceiling and ponders whether to tell her any of this. Whether the telling would make him feel better, or whether some things ought to remain secret.

But Merrill speaks first.

“I never saw Tamlen go either,” she whispers, her fingers slowly stilling in his hair. It occurs to him that Merrill might think he is asleep. “One day he was sharing stories around the campfire, then the next he and Mahariel had vanished, without any trace. I didn’t really know Mahariel very well, but Tamlen…

“For a long time I didn’t believe he was gone. When I came here, I saw his face in every crowd. Behind the fruit stalls. At the docks. Just disappearing into Varric’s room. He could have been anywhere. And to me, he was.”

She takes a long, shuddering breath. “But then I started to forget what he looked like. His face just—faded away, bit by bit, until now all I have left are the memories of my memories, the knowledge that there was something important that I used to know, but don’t any longer.” She leans a wet cheek against the top of his head. “Forgetting is so scary.”

“It’s not fair,” Carver mutters.

Stirring, Merrill makes a soft noise, not quite a sigh, and clutches him a little tighter. “No,” she says. “It isn’t.”

“I don’t think you’d remember any better had you been there, though. You’d still forget in the end. We all do.” Carver shifts his fingers ever-so-slightly along her ribs, just enough to remind himself that she is whole, and real. His vision swims. He shuts his eyes against hot, prickling lashes. “I don’t want to forget my mother. I shouldn’t have to.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Her voice is as tight and bitter as his. “You’ve already lost so much.”

He swallows, his throat dry and tight. “I’m starting to think it only means there’s more left to lose.”

“Garrett, you mean?”

“Him too.”

She kisses his temple. “I’m here, _ma vhenan_. I’m right here.”

_But for how long_? he thinks bitterly. _When will I lose you too?_

Yet he says nothing. Instead, he simply sighs against her body, and as he does, his breath comes back to him, warm and wet, alive.


	118. Restoration XXIII: The Will

Two weeks after the memorial, Carver finally hears from his brother.

Or, rather, he assumes the letter is from his brother, as it arrives on stationary bearing the Amell crest. But the handwriting is different, longer and more harried, with more spelling errors than he’s used to his brother making. Maybe, Carver thinks with no small bitterness, Garrett now makes his new elven slave— _servant—_ manage his correspondence in his stead.

 _Come to the estate on Tusday, 7:00,_ it reads. _Mother left you some things, and we need to discus the inheritence. Bring Gamlen. -Garrett_

Carver reads the letter twice before recognizing the hand as Anders’s. Suddenly he is angry, even angrier than he was when he thought Orana might have written it. He crumples the note and tosses it into the nearest fireplace.

***

“I’m being summoned,” he tells Merrill as they fulfill his usual rounds in the alienage. “Whistled at like a mabari bitch.”

She touches his arm. She touches him a lot lately: small brushes of the hand, nudges and pats, soft kisses in chaste places. Carver hates it almost as much as he craves it. This new thing between them, it’s wonderful and awful in equal measure, and as much as he needs her right now, he’d also give anything for it not to be happening—or, at least, for it to have happened instead at any other point in time, past or future. He’s confused enough as is.

She looks up at him. “Will you go?”

“I suppose I have to.” Rather than meet her expectant gaze, he lifts his eyes to the sky. No blue today, just one grey, flat mass. Fitting. Comforting. “I have to see what Mother wanted.”

She laces her fingers, warm and solid, around his bicep. “Do you want me to come too?”

He smiles down at her joylessly.

“No,” he says. “It’s probably just for family. Which means Gamlen will be there too.” Carver doesn’t add that he hates the way Gamlen looks at her, that he’s always hated it, but Merrill smirks at him knowingly. Not for the first time he wonders if elven magic allows her to read minds.

“Oh, nevermind him,” she says with a dismissive wave of her free hand. “If he’s fresh, I’ll turn him into a toad.”

Carver laughs, dry and hollow. “I’m not sure toads can still inherit.”

“That’s a good point. We should ask Aveline.” Merrill’s face screws in contemplation. “After all, human laws are so curious.”

***

Carver and Gamlen arrive at the appointed time and are greeted at the door by Garrett’s dwarven servant, Bodahn. Watching the former businessman fuss about the foyer, bowing and scraping and calling Gamlen “messere” (to Gamlen’s obvious delight), is more than a little embarrassing. Carver detests this new hobby of his brother’s, this collecting of servants as if they were rare coins. Maybe Garrett ought to acquire a Qunari servant too; maybe he’d get extra nobleman points for a complete set.

Bodahn shooes them into the library, where Garrett sits, fingers steepled, in a large armchair that faces the fire. To Carver’s surprise and consternation, Anders is also there, leaning against a nearby bookcase and pretending to read.

“Thanks for coming,” begins Garrett.

“Save it,” says Gamlen. “You asked us here, and we’re here. Let’s get this over with.”

Carver might not like his uncle overly much, but he certainly appreciates the man’s presence now.

The proceedings are fairly mundane. Apparently, Mother had had the presence of mind to draw up a will fairly recently, an act for which Carver can’t decide if he’s grateful or resentful. Either way, the idea that she’d somehow anticipated her own passing – not the timing, perhaps, but at least the possibility – almost as soon as she’d returned to her childhood home fills Carver with deep, unshakable loathing, though for what or whom he can’t quite say.

As Garrett is the primary heir, Mother didn’t have much to claim, but her will makes what few provisions her living would allow: a disability fund for Carver; a pension for her brother. Her jewelry and possessions go to Garrett, with the stipulation that her dresses be sent to auction, the proceeds of which are to benefit Fereldan charities. She leaves Carver her grandparents’ wedding bands. Garrett receives hers and Malcolm’s.

“What are we to do with these?” Carver groans.

“Get married, I guess,” mutters Garrett, carefully not looking in Anders’s direction.

Carver sighs. He’s sick of this. Sick of documents, sick of stipends, sick of gifts from beyond the grave. Sick of divvying up a woman’s life into jewelry and silvers and all the things that never really mattered to her, or anyone else, before they came here, to this Maker-forsaken city across the sea. He’s just—sick.

“You’ve changed,” he mutters, not to anybody in particular.

“We all have,” replies Garrett with equal vagueness.

That Garrett feels he needed to say anything at all reminds Carver of his anger. He claps the ring box closed. “You didn’t come to the memorial,” he says abruptly.

“I was there when she died,” says Garrett. “Anything else would have been redundant.”

“I see.” Carver starts to pace, fury flushing his bare cheeks. “Of course there’s no reason to show up and do your duty like us normal people, not when you’ve already personally consigned her to the Maker’s side.”

“I need a drink,” Gamlen sighs, then disappears.

Reflected firelight flashing in his eyes, Garrett regards his brother in sullen silence.

“He didn’t kill her, Carver,” Anders says quietly. It’s the first he’s spoken since Carver arrived. Pushing off the wall, he comes to stand beside the armchair and rests his hand gently on Garrett’s shoulder.

“I’ll have to take your word on that, as _I_ wasn’t there.” Carver glares at Anders. “Why are you even here, anyway?”

“He’s as much a part of this family as you are,” says Garrett.

“Not part of _my_ family,” snaps Carver.

Anders starts to turn. “Maybe I should go—“

But Garrett lays his hand on top of Anders’s, which results in the man staggering awkwardly back to his former position. “You’re not going anywhere. And you—“ Garrett seethes at Carver, “hold your damn tongue.”

“Or what? You’ll give me a crack on the lip?” Carver squares his shoulders. “I’d like to see you try.”

“This isn’t helping,” interrupts Anders.

“Stay out of it.” Behind the dark beard, Garrett’s cheeks are ruddy. “What do you want me to say, Carver? That I’m sorry? I am. I miss her too. So don’t pretend you’re the only one devastated by this.”

Carver’s hands begin to shake, every nerve alive, furious. “You miss her? You _miss_ her? How dare you _miss_ her when you weren’t even around half the time? You were always too busy chasing after treasure and fucking this gutter-trash here to give two shits about what she was up to.”

Garrett leaps to his feet, the armchair scraping back several inches. “Says the brat who joined a gang the moment my back was turned.”

“At least I did something with my life!” Carver takes a step forward. They’re both shouting now, and all the servants have gathered in the gallery upstairs to watch, but Carver doesn’t care, he’ll shout as loud as he likes, Maker dammit, from the top of the Sundermount should he see fit. “At least I gave her something to be proud of.”

“You didn’t make her proud.” Garrett jabs at the air with an accusing finger. “You broke her heart! She grieved you as much as Bethany.”

For a moment, Carver staggers as if struck. Then he lowers his voice to a dangerous pitch.

“Well at least I checked in on her once in a while,” he says through clenched teeth. “Where were you the night she disappeared anyway?”

Garrett throws his hands into the air.

“Yes, I killed her!” he howls. “Because of me, because I wasn’t there, Mother is dead. There, are you happy now? Is that what you wanted?”

Before he can even contemplate what he’s doing, Carver lurches toward his brother. His fist connects with Garrett’s face. Knuckles crack, fingers to bone. Garrett reels into Anders’s arms.

“You bastard,” Carver screams. “I _want_ my mother back.”

Horrified, Anders steps forward, but Garrett motions him back. He doesn’t throw a punch, nor advance. Instead, Garrett smiles grimly, wipes one hand across his face. A long trail of blood smears across his nose.

“Feel better now?” he says calmly.

Anger abating, Carver feels himself deflate. He shakes out his hand. “You’re such a fucking martyr.”

Garrett does not rise to the bait. “I think we’re done here.”

“I think we’re done, period,” Carver growls.

Then he his mother’s ring box from the desk and leaves without another word.


	119. Restoration XXIV: Returned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up to regular AO3 readers; I'll be taking a break from regular updates next week to finish Fair Child. I may post a drabble here or there, but my main focus will be the other fic. Updates will likely resume as scheduled on the 21st.

The next morning on his way to the alienage, Carver is surprised to find Gamlen waiting for him in the Gallows courtyard.

“Found these at your brother’s place,” he says, nodding to a canvas satchel at his side. He hands it to Carver without preamble, shoving it at him as if it were a carton of rotten eggs. “Thought you should have them instead.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Carver peers into the sack. Inside are five or six books, no larger than a Tethras serial, bound in odd-looking, leathery skins that bear no resemblance to any leather Carver recognizes. He extracts one. Its title reads, _On the Reanimation of Organic Tissue: Theoretical Calculations and Thought-Experiments for the Advanced Alchemist._

He thinks of the flesh golem in the alienage and shudders.

“How on earth did Garrett come by these?” he asks, examining the book from all angles. He wishes he knew what had made those stains. Water? Mold? Or something more nefarious?

“How should I know? I simply thought it curious reading for—“ Gamlen stops himself and looks around suspiciously. Then he continues in a whisper. “—for a you-know-what.”

Carver smirks. “So you stole them for your own leisure.”

Gamlen’s eyes boggle like a lizard’s. “Don’t joke like that, boy,” he snaps. “Can’t you see they’re tomes of—of—“ He nervously eyes a pair of bored-looking lieutenants across the courtyard. “— _ill intent_?”

“Blood magic, you mean?” offers Carver.

Gamlen pales. “You don’t think they’re his, do you? Or the healer’s?”

Carver opens up the front cover. On the inside flap he sees a familiar sigil stamped in the lower right. The seal of the Gallows archives. With dread, Carver realizes that these must be the blood magic books that Cullen had warned him about all those weeks ago. So why _did_ Garrett have them?

He claps the book shut. Gamlen winces.

“No, I don’t. Garrett has many dangerous interests, but blood magic isn’t one of them.” He puts the book back in the satchel. “Still, you were right to bring them here. I’ll make sure they get where they need to go.”

If possible, his uncle looks even more unsettled by his words. “You mean—you aren’t going to destroy them?”

“Not my call.” Gamlen looks like at any moment he might retch, so Carver takes pity on him and adds, “But if it’s any consolation, it’s very likely they’ll end up on tomorrow’s trash pyre.”

That seems to put some color back in Gamlen’s cheeks. “Good, good.” He turns to leave.

“Wait,” says Carver, though he’s not really sure why he does until it’s out of his mouth.

Sourly his uncle looks back over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Did—“ Carver glances at his feet. “Did my brother say—anything—“

Gamlen makes a disgusted noise. “What am I, your seneschal? Find another middleman. Personally I think you’re a right shit. You both are.”

“But—“

Suddenly Gamlen wheels on him, angry, angrier than Carver can remember ever him being. “Don’t come to me with your tears,” he seethes, his voice raw and dangerous. “Some of us don’t have siblings anymore to push away.”

***

Without so much as knocking, Carver enters Cullen’s office and says, “I found your missing books.”

He drops the satchel on Cullen’s desk. The Knight-Captain only has to glance in the bag for a moment before he scrunches his nose in distaste. “Where did you find these?”

“A generous donor dropped them in my lap,” says Carver with as much confidence as he can muster. “Too bad he’s… indisposed at the moment.”

Not quite a lie, but it’s enough ambiguity to suggest what needs suggesting, and Cullen nods in obvious approval.

“Good,” he says. “But these aren’t the missing books.”

Carver frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“Those books were on communicating with demons, ancient elven technologies, that sort of thing. These, I weren’t even aware they’d gone missing.” As Cullen speaks, his shoulders slump and the furrows in his brow deepen. “Someone must have stolen them from right under our noses. An inside job, perhaps? The Mage Underground? They _are_ getting bolder.”

Carver feels like he’s just told a bad joke. “Oh.”

The Knight-Captain looks up, as if he’d forgotten Carver were there. “Still,” he says. “These tomes are just as dangerous. You did well to recover them before they could be used for ill gain.”

As soon as Cullen says it, Carver’s stomach sinks. Remembering the golem, he wonders if he weren’t in fact too late after all.

“Good work, Hawke.” Cullen smiles grimly. “Or should I say, Ser Hawke?”

Carver blinks. “Ser?”

“Between this and the reports I’ve received from the Guard, I think you’ve proven yourself quite handily. So I’m restoring you to active duty. No more mess hall or clean-up. Report to Thrask in the morning for new assignment.”

“Oh.” Carver looks down at his hands. “Thank you, ser,” he adds, because he assumes gratitude is what one feels in a situation like this, instead of dull emptiness, and grief, and the nagging sensation of things left unfinished.

“Dismissed,” says Cullen.

With a nod, Carver leaves the office. He closes the door behind him and for the rest of the afternoon, wanders the halls in a daze, wondering what in Thedas he should do next.


End file.
